


Assassins' Creed: Constitution

by Kingsdaughter613



Series: The Judean Codex [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Articles of Confederation, Confederation NOT Confederacy, F/M, Gen, Lots and lots of early American history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 87,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingsdaughter613/pseuds/Kingsdaughter613
Summary: The war is over, but the question remains: what IS the United States? And can the new Nation figure it out in time to succeed? Into these turbulent times sails the Morrigan, with Shay Cormac at the prow. The Templars are not quite ready to give up on America, and it's up to Connor and his Brotherhood to prevent them from taking her back.
Relationships: Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor/Original Female Character(s), Shay Cormac & Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Shay Cormac/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Judean Codex [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801978
Comments: 27
Kudos: 21





	1. Prelude: 1783

Prelude: 1783

* * *

It was a small thing the letter, but it weighed heavy in his hands. The older man sighed, reading it over again, before turning to his younger companion. “Haytham ought to have picked you.”

“You have seniority,” came the quick reply. “Besides, I have work to finish here.” Jay moved past the window, the light catching his golden-brown hair.

“The fishing rights.” The older man’s mouth twitched upward in a quick grin.

“Among others,” the younger man frowned, pensive. “We need the treaty with the British, but it _must_ give us what _we_ need.”

“I know,” the elder agreed, folding the parchment carefully. “Acknowledging our liberty is a good start, but we will need more if the States are to be truly free.”

“Agreed,” Jay said. “Though it will be harder now, without you to help us distract the French.”

The older man chuckled briefly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make due with Adams.” He sobered quickly, his smile fading. “Is Pinckney still active?”

“He was in ’79,” replied the younger, stoking the fire. “I haven’t heard much; intentionally, I suspect.”

The older of the two nodded. “Very likely. Haytham scattered us before the Assassin could.”

They stood in silence for a moment, mourning old friends and comrades lost. At last the elder sighed, knelt before the fire and fed the pages to the flames.

“I suppose I’d best be headed home then,” he said when the last sheet had turned to ash.

Jay bent his head gravely. “May the Father of Understanding grant you success in your endeavors, _Grandmaster_.”

The elder smiled sadly at his younger colleague. “And to you in yours, Commissioner Jay,” he said as he headed to the rainswept streets.

The Grandmaster walked the cobbled Parisian streets, head bowed. High above, an eagle soared. The letter had weighed heavy, but his title was heavier still.


	2. Prologue:2020

**Prologue: 2020**

As a high-ranking Templar, Juhani Otso Berg had many duties. As the Black Cross he had many more. It was why he was here today, he mused as he scanned the file in his hands.

The Confederation Period. A fascinating time in American history, too often overlooked, it had been marked by instability and populist revolt. The current protests and riots carried echoes of those earlier ones; ones that shaped the fledgling United States. Those early revolts had heralded a new age of law and order; Juhani intended these modern ones to usher in the same.

The question was how it had been done before, and how to ensure it would happen again. With the Animus Juhani could relive those early days in Confederation America; he could experience how it had been done and apply the lessons to the present day, provided he had the right DNA.

_That is the problem, of course_ , Juhani thought, as he scanned the file. Connor Kenway lived during that time and Abstergo had _his_ DNA. But where Assassins react, Templars act. It wasn’t enough for Juhani to see the response; no, he had to experience the manipulations that shaped the matter. _Those_ memories belonged to the Templar Shay Patrick Cormac.

Juhani had a particular interest in the man; Cormac had created the role of the modern Black Cross. Unfortunately, the genetic sample Abstergo acquired was badly degraded, with many of the memories hopelessly corrupted. The Animus _could_ reconstruct memories, much as the brain did, but it needed context to do so. Usually a simple historical reference was enough but, as badly degraded as Cormac’s sample was, it simply hadn’t been enough. Entire decades were completely unrecoverable.

Juhani read the note attached to the file again.

_‘Mr. Berg,_

_I’ve discovered a few years where Cormac’s life overlaps with Connor Kenway’s. I believe that inputting both genetic samples may allow the Animus to cross reference Kenway’s memories to reconstruct some of Cormac’s._ ’

It was, Juhani decided, certainly worth a try. Eyes narrowed, he booted up the Animus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Confederation Period - the period of time during which the United States was under the Articles of Confederation. Technically it begins during the Revolution, but most people count it as going from 1783 - 1787 or 1789. Despite the similarities, it has nothing to with the Confederacy, which wouldn't exist until the next century. We kind of needed a Nation before we could have a Civil War, right?


	3. 1784: Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter.

Chapter 1

* * *

“You are certain it is a Templar ship?” Connor asked. The Assassin stood atop St. Paul’s parish, white robes fluttering in the spring breeze, watching over the bustling streets below. New York was always moving, a far cry from the quiet village where Connor had grown.

His first mate snorted, leaning back against the steeple. “Damn straight it is. You think I’d forget the ship that sunk the _Aquila_?” Faulkner scowled, obviously thinking of damage once wrought on his beloved vessel. “She’s the thrice damned _Morrigan_ , alright. No mistaking those bloody sails.”

“And she sunk you?”

Faulkner’s face darkened further. “Aye. Her and her damned traitor captain.”

It was Connor’s turn to frown. A traitor… “Cormac.” He knew little of the man, only that he existed. Once an Assassin; now their enemy, Shay Cormac had betrayed the Colonial Brotherhood for the Templar Order. His actions had directly led to its devastation, before Connor had revived it.

Faulkner nodded. “Achilles told you about that then.”

Connor shook his head. “He left a note. It did not say much.” He paused, thinking back to the terse missive he had found pinned to an old, faded tapestry, shoved in a drawer. His old mentor had left long and detailed instructions, but on the matter of the traitor he had been strangely silent. “Achilles asked me not to kill Cormac.”

Faulkner gave a harsh, mirthless chuckle. “Of course he did. Achilles never wanted that traitor dead. Even when he gave the order it was clear his heart wasn’t in it.”

There were many things to say to that, many questions which could and should be asked. Connor settled on the simplest. “Why?”

Faulkner glowered in the direction of the docks, where the Morrigan lay in berth. “Why? Damned if I know. But we all paid the price for the old man’s folly.” He turned his glare on Connor. “Don’t you make the same.”

Connor nodded - then, mind made up, leapt off the side of the chapel, heading toward the docks. “Tell me about him on the way.”

Faulkner cursed, then hurried after his captain. “We _are_ going to kill him, right?”

The Assassin shook his head, dodging pedestrians and pushcarts as he spoke. “Achilles asked me not to, if I can. We’ll see what he wants; what he’s doing here.”

“He’s here to kill _you_ , you damned fool!” Faulkner exclaimed furiously, barely avoiding a passing cart. “That’s what he does – hunts Assassins!”

“Then I’ll kill him,” Connor replied calmly. “Either way, I can hardly allow him to wander about the city.”

* * *

The docks were loud and bustling. Dockhands cursed as they unloaded goods, sailors caroused on the walkways, captains shouted instructions to their crews and the harbormaster hollered as he directed the ships. Through it all, the _Morrigan_ stood out.

“I see what you meant by her sails,” Connor noted dryly. A deep crimson, marked with a Templar cross, they stood out among the tans and whites sported by other ships. Had Connor been inclined to doubt his first mate – and he had not – this would have confirmed it.

“We’d say they were stained by the blood of her enemies.” For a moment the older man almost looked sad, before his face hardened again. “Those _used_ to be Templars.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the ship. She was smaller than the Aquila, built for speed and heavily armed. “Cormac wants us to know he’s here,” he finally said.

Faulkner raised a brow in query. “How do you figure?”

Connor pointed at the blood colored sails. “What ship leaves her sails down in port? This is a message.”

“A trap,” Faulkner corrected.

“But what sort,” Connor mused. Decisively, he shook his head. “Let’s spring it.”

He strode up the gangplank, Faulkner following behind. On deck, a man in a large, wide-brimmed hat and long dark coat was shouting orders to the hapless dockhands. “Careful, you clumsy oafs! Those are _fragile_!”

“Is that-” Connor began, but Faulkner shook his head.

“Christopher Gist, the first mate.”

“Nathanial, actually,” the hat wearing man corrected as he turned. “A moment – furl the sails, Lads!”

“Told you,” Connor muttered smugly. Faulkner scowled.

Nathanial smiled as he turned back to the two Assassins. “I apologize. It isn’t wise to leave those down longer than they need to be.” He grinned suddenly, offering his hand. “Nathanial Gist, Mentor Kenway. Christopher was my father; he died of the pox some years back.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor said as he shook the other man’s hand. Beneath his fingers he could feel the shape of Nathanial’s ring. This man was a Templar then. “I remember when the pox hit Valley Forge. That is not a kind death.”

“I’m not,” growled Faulkner. “That man sunk the _Aquila_!”

“Ah, no, that was me,” Nathanial admitted. “Father died in ’66.”

“You-” Faulkner snapped.

“Easy,” Connor placed a restraining hand on his first mate’s shoulder. “We are not here to fight.”

“ _You_ aren’t,” Faulkner muttered angrily, turning away. “Never said _I_ wasn’t.”

Connor sighed. “Where is your captain, Mr. Gist?”

“You’re looking at him,” Nathanial smirked. “Shay couldn’t take the _Morrigan_ to Europe, so he left her to me. But if it’s Shay you’re looking for,” he shrugged, “I think he went to see what happened to Fort Arsenal.”

Connor nodded slowly. “And where is-”

“Are you Seneca?”

Connor looked down, meeting the eyes of a young, dusky skinned girl. She wore a pale pink frock, and her dark hair was pulled back in a tight braid. She smiled brightly, continuing to speak without pause. “My biggest brothers and sister are Seneca, and so are Charlie and Virginia, but Da is adopted Oneida and-“

“Angelique!” A woman crossed the deck rapidly, clearly looking for the girl. Her deep blue gown just brushed the polished planks, perfectly setting off her coffee skin and ebony hair. Her eyes were of a similar shade to her dress, but far more brilliant in hue. Connor had never cared much for such physical things as others did, but even he could not help but acknowledge her beauty.

“Angelique,” the woman scolded, “what have I told you about bothering guests?”

The girl wilted. “Not to, Maman.”

“She was no bother,” Connor interjected quickly. He knelt down, smiling at the child. “I am Kanien’keha’:ka… or Mohawk, as the people here call us. The Seneca and Oneida are our sister tribes.”

The girl giggled, delighted. “What do we say Angelique?” her mother prompted.

“Merci, Maman.”

“Thank _Mentor Kenway_ , Angelique.”

“Merci, Mentor Kenway.”

“You’re welcome,” Connor responded, off-put by the use of his father’s name. Gist had used it too, hadn’t he? Connor never did.

The woman smiled proudly at her daughter. “Bonne fille. Allez rejoindre vos frères et sœurs; vous avez des leçons à completer.” The girl ran off, laughing merrily.

Connor chuckled as he stood up. “She is a sweet child Mistress…”

“Cormac,” the woman replied, smile suddenly sharp. “She is sweet – and often too bold. She takes after her père in that regard. _Mentor_ Kenway. Such a shame if something were to strip her of her joy.”

Connor stiffened. Somehow, the thought that Cormac might be married – or have young children! – had not occurred to him. And yet it was clear that the man had both. Behind him, Faulkner whistled. “Lucky bastard, winning a woman like you.”

Mistress Cormac’s smile grew colder still, as she looked at the old sailor. “As I am certain you know, Monsieur Faulkner, my husband makes his own luck.” She curtsied gracefully, her brilliant eyes ice. “Mentor Kenway.”

“Mistress Cormac.” Her leave taken, the woman followed her daughter below decks. Connor watched, pensive.

“Fort Washington.”

“What?” Connor turned, startled out of his dark thoughts.

“Fort Washington,” Nathanial repeated. “That’s where Fort Arsenal used to be. It was badly burnt during the fire and George used it as a fort, after. Shay said something about trying to reclaim the land, as I recall.”

“Why are you telling me this,” Connor demanded, voice harsher than he intended. Angelique Cormac and her mother had left him shaken. That he suspected the meeting had been staged only made matters worse.

Nathanial smirked, as though he could see the turmoil afflicting Connor’s mind. “Shay said to tell you, if you came by. As to why – well, I suggest you ask him.”

* * *

Shay Cormac had not been at Fort Washington. Nor was he at the ruins of a house that had once belonged to someone named Finnegan. Nor was he at the warehouses, nor the site of the newly planned church, nor half a dozen other places Connor had tracked him to. He had always just left, or stepped out, or exited just as they entered. Connor was more than weary of the man’s game, though he had to commend the Templar’s blending skills.

But now the traitor kneeled before him, in the last place Connor wanted to be, the Assassin’s Hidden Blade at his neck. Shay Cormac knelt before Haytham Kenway’s grave, an eagle circling high above his head. “Mentor Kenway,” he said lightly, the lilt in his words betraying his Irish heritage, “what took you so long?”

Connor glowered at the man kneeling before him. “You made us chase you around the city, Cormac I doubt you arrived much before us.”

The older man laughed. The expression seemed uncomfortable on his face, as though he wasn’t much used to doing so. “You’re not wrong. I honestly thought I’d have more time before you came.” He tilted his head to meet Connor’s gaze, entirely unconcerned by the Blade at his throat. “You’re quite good at what you do.”

“You _do_ realize that I’ve killed your Templar brethren,” Connor demanded.

“Aye,” Cormac replied. “Your father among them. But,” he turned back to the headstone, “I do not believe you are going to kill me.”

“So certain, are you,” snarled Faulkner, his pistol trained on the Templar.

Cormac shrugged. “He,” he jerked his head toward Connor, forcing the Assassin to rapidly retract his Blade, “would have done so already. And you,” his cool smile faded and his eyes grew cold, “You owe me your life, _Robert_. I do not think you will take mine.”

Startled, Connor looked to his first mate, who flinched. “You did not tell me that.”

The other man looked away, shamefaced. “It doesn’t matter,” he said roughly. “Doesn’t change what he _did_.”

“I’m not so certain.” Connor turned his attention back to Cormac. The older man was standing now, having taken advantage of the brief distraction. The Assassin’s eyes narrowed. “Well played.”

“Better than you know.” The Templar opened his gloved hand, revealing two small, finely wrought gears. Connor’s eyes widened. He twisted his hand to extend his right Blade, but the gears only grated sharply. The Templar had disarmed it.

“Die traitor!” Faulkner cried, raising his pistol.

“No!” Shouted Connor, raising his hand. “He did not have to tell me!”

Cormac gave a sharp nod, his dark eyes meeting Connor’s. “I don’t want to fight. I’m here to request a favor.”

Connor frowned thoughtfully at the older man. He could not risk trusting him; even if Cormac was not a traitor, he was still a Templar. But the man had had the opportunity to kill Connor when he first disarmed him – the unexpected distraction of the non-functional blade would have been fatal- and had chosen not to do so. The Assassin could respect Cormac’s courage, if nothing else. There could be no harm in listening, at least. He could always refuse.

“Ask.” Cormac’s eyes flashed in sudden triumph and Connor was suddenly certain that he had made a grave mistake. But what, he did not know. The Templar’s next words enlightened him.

“I want to go to Davenport.”

“No.” The response was immediate, instinctive.

The older man raised a hand peaceably. “Hear me out,” he said quickly. “Achilles was my mentor once–”

“Aye, and you betrayed him,” snapped Faulkner.

Cormac sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “I don’t deny that, though I will hold he betrayed me first. Not that it matters now,” he added hurriedly, cutting off Faulkner’s objections. “He’s dead. We never made peace while he lived, but I’d like to seek some manner of it, if I may.”

“You don’t deserve that chance,” the elder of the Assassins snarled.

“Perhaps not,” Cormac acknowledged. “But we rarely receive what we do. I’d like to seek it all the same. Would you deny me that, Mentor _Kenway_?”

Connor sighed. He had been right; allowing the Templar to ask had been a mistake. “You are playing me,” he pointed out.

The Templar grinned, quick and easy. “Does it count if you know?”

Despite himself, Connor chuckled. Faulkner glared at him. “Oh, don’t tell me–”

“He would go anyway,” Connor noted. “And he was good enough to avoid us all day. At least this way, we know where he is – and he’ll be disarmed.”

Faulkner sighed irritably. “Fine.” He turned his glare on Cormac. “But one step out of line traitor–”

“I know,” the Templar replied, and for the first time looked every one of his fifty-odd years. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Nathanial Gist - the son of Christopher Gist, and a notable frontiersman in his own right. He was also a Revolutionary War hero and is believed to be the father of Sequoya.
> 
> Magdalene Dumas Davy de la Pailieterie - The eldest of the Dumas Davy de la Pailleterie children, Magdalene's history was erased when she became a spy for the Templar Order at the grand old age of six. Madeline de Lisle noted the girl's skill for mimicry and had her trained. Magdalene's brother, Thomas-Alexandre, was a famous French general and the father of Alexandre Dumas. (I'm assuming you know who he is.)
> 
> Angelique Cormac - One of Shay Cormac's numerous offspring. Very little is known of her. (Records were terrible and he had a LOT of kids.)


	4. 1784: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

“Still don’t like horses, do you?” Despite the sharp edge to his words, Faulkner could not quite disguise the teasing note. The long ride to Massachusetts had done a great deal for easing tensions.

It had also given Connor the opportunity to get to know the Templar. It was a chance he had squandered with his father; he would not make the same mistake again. If there was even the slightest chance at peace, the Assassin would embrace it.

_Yes,_ he thought, _leaving the ships behind was a good idea._ And yet…

Connor frowned to himself. Despite their recent comradery, he could not entirely silence the niggling doubts. He was certain Cormac was using him, though for what he did not know. But it was more than that. Cormac had been an Assassin, sworn to the Creed as Connor was. And he had _betrayed_ it, turning his Blades on his own brothers. The Mark of Cain suited the Templar well.

A traitor could never be trusted, Connor knew with utter certainty. But he had also thought such men cowards, and Cormac was definitely not one. A man did not walk into enemy territory alone and unarmed if he was.

Connor sighed, frustrated by the paradox of his dilemma. Cormac had been a Templar for decades now, and he had never turned against his new Order. The man was a true convert, it seemed. And that was the crux of the matter: What could drive a man, who could devote himself so utterly to a cause, to betray it and take on his enemies?

“Why?” Connor asked aloud the question which had troubled him for days. “Why do it?”

The older men turned toward him; their edged banter abruptly stilled. Cormac sighed, lifting his head to meet Connor’s eyes. “Because,” he said, gaze firm and unwavering, “it was right.”

Connor opened his mouth to question the Templar further, but sudden gunshots changed the words even as they emerged. “Ambush!”

Cormac slid from his horse, looking remarkably relieved at being attacked. He lifted his arm- then cursed, the gears of his Blades grinding. He’d obviously forgotten they had been disarmed- a potentially fatal oversight. Connor threw the older man a knife and received a grateful nod in response.

A second volley of gunshots had them all scattering to avoid the spray.

Connor charged forward, tomahawk at the ready. Faulkner cried out behind him, the man’s horse screeching impossibly high before abruptly cutting off.

“I’m alright!” the seaman panted. “Jumped in time!”

Connor nodded, focused on the enemies ahead. They were brigands, some part of him noted clinically, wearing Colonial army uniforms – or what passed as such. Remnants of the mutiny in Pennsylvania last year?

Then he was on them, and it no longer mattered.

Connor rode the first man down. The brigand screamed as he was crushed, the steel shod hooves rending through flesh and bone. Connor threw his hatchet at a second, the blade catching between ribs, digging deep into the man’s chest. The former soldier fell with the sound of crunching bones and squelching organs, blood spurting from his wound in a crimson spray. Connor rode on, guiding his horse in a tight circle before charging forward again.

From the corner of his eye Connor could see a man fall, clutching his throat. Cormac nodded toward the Assassin, before vanishing back into the brush, seeking further prey.

A shot from Faulkner’s pistols took out another ambusher. Connor swung his tomahawk, nearly beheading one more. His charge’s momentum severed the rest, sending it tumbling across the ground. The remaining highwaymen, seeing their comrades so swiftly executed, fled.

“Nice fight,” Cormac grinned, stepping out of the shadows. “Do we chase them down?”

Connor shook his head, retrieving his hatchet. “No. We need to replace the lost horse. I will let the local authorities know.”

Cormac snorted. “What authorities? We’re on the border here. The States are too busy clinging to their own territories to care for what goes on between.”

“What would you suggest,” Faulkner responded dryly. “We allow your Templar friends to take over?”

Cormac chuckled. “Eventually, perhaps. For now I’ll settle for a stronger government than the Articles allow.”

In the years to come, Connor would come to regret not having paid those words more heed. Today, he simply spurred his horse forward to home.

The next few days passed uneventfully and it was not long before they saw the familiar buildings of Davenport Homestead. The sun shone high and bright overhead as they entered the grounds of the Assassin Sanctuary, an eagle circling high above.

Instinctively, Shay Cormac’s hands went to his shoulders in a flicking motion Connor knew all too well. His eyes met Faulkner’s and the older Assassin began to chuckle. A moment later, unable to suppress it, Connor began to laugh as well.

“How long,” demanded Faulkner, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, “have you been a Templar?”

Shay glared at them, then sighed, and finally threw back his head, joining the Assassins in their mirth. “Almost thirty years now since I wore the hood, and I still –“ He repeated the gesture, this time intentionally.

“Achilles really ingrained that one,” Connor said through his chuckles. “I remember; he was always on about it.”

Shay grinned back, though his smile was touched by sadness. “Aye, the old man was most insistent on it. And now, no matter how hard I try-” He mimed putting the hood on again, sending them all back into gales of laughter. “I keep doing it!”

_It was_ , Connor thought, _a surprisingly nice way to end the journey: Laughing over a former Assassin looking for a hood he abandoned decades before._

“There is more of the Creed left in you than you admit,” Connor said when the laughter had finally died down.

“I don’t deny it,” The Templar replied, suddenly somber. “It’s what makes me so dangerous.”

And on that note, they headed to the manor house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Pennsylvania Mutiny - Essentially what happens if you don't pay your army: they show up at your doorstep demanding their money. Dressed in full military regalia - guns included -of course. Washington managed to forge a peace here, but the mutiny was a warning of troubles to come.
> 
> AUthor's Note: Shay is still trying to lift his hood in 1776, based on his animation when sneaking into Versailles. It may have been (like 99% ) a bit of leftover code from when he still had one (as it was one of the last things removed from the game) but I love that it's cannon that he's still trying to put it on so long after he abandoned it. It's a great metaphor for him.


	5. 1784: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

“I’ll go see to the _Aquila_ ,” Faulkner announced as they neared the manor. “I could wish you’d have let us take _her_ , instead of these damned beasts.” He patted his horse roughly.

“Seconded,” Shay agreed dryly.

Connor smirked at the two seamen. “But then we would have gotten here too soon,” he said innocently.

Shay snorted. “I assure you, Mentor Kenway, there are better ways of getting to know a man than camping in the woods.”

“And less eventful ones,” Faulkner affirmed.

Connor shot the older men a smug look over his shoulder, riding toward the stables. Behind him he could hear the seamen grousing as they took their leave. Who would have thought such comradery possible just a week past?

“I’m glad you’re in such a good mood,” a sharp voice snapped, echoing through the darkened stable. “Seeing as you’ve decided bringing an enemy here is a good plan.”

Connor winced, his good mood vanishing. “He was going to come anyway, Dobby. At least this way I know where he is.”

The woman’s scowl deepened. “And how would he know where to go,” she demanded. “This place isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“I lived here,” Cormac answered as he walked into the stable. “Stayed in the manor, actually.” His eyes filled with sudden grief. “I was the only Assassin who did.”

“Assassin?” Dobby asked, her confusion evident. “The message said you were a Templar!”

“I am,” the older man replied dryly.

“He betrayed the Brotherhood,” Connor explained.

“And you brought him _here_?!” Dobby snarled.

“I told you,” Connor repeated irritably. “He would have come anyway.”

Dobby shook her head. “Is that so.”

“It is,” Shay confirmed.

The female Assassin shook her head. “And you’re really going to tell me that this isn’t an attempt to do with _him_ ,” she pointed at the Templar, “what you couldn’t do with your _father_.” Connor stared stonily at the woman, refusing to respond. Angrily, Dobby shook her head. “When he betrays you too, don’t come crying to me.” Head high, she stormed off, leaving the two men behind.

Cormac chuckled, breaking the silence. “She’s a fiery one. Reminds me of my Maggie.”

“Your wife.”

Shay nodded.

Connor sighed. “The grave is this way,” he said, moving to the doors. Together they walked in silence toward the small plot.

“I remember when Abigail and Connor died,” Shay said suddenly. “The whole Brotherhood went into mourning. Achilles was never the same after.”

“No one would be,” Connor replied, and they lapsed into silence again.

Shay halted as they approached the gravesite. “Would you mind waiting here? What I have to say to him… it’s between us. You can watch, if you’d like, but I’d prefer you did not listen.”

“I can,” Connor agreed. “But stay in sight.”

The Templar gave a sharp nod, before turning and walking to the grave.

Connor leaned against the post, eyes narrowed. Initially still, Shay had quickly begun moving about, arms moving in silent debate. As the day waned the Templar stilled again, slumping against the stone. He pressed his head to the cool surface, as though seeking comfort. Connor could just make out the man’s lips moving in silent dialogue.

The moon rose and still the Templar sat curled by the grave. Were it not for the dark eyes reflecting the moonlight, Connor might have thought the man asleep. Idly, he wondered if Shay hoped the Assassin would tire and leave. If so, the older man was mistaken, but Connor found himself oddly certain that that was not the Templar’s intent.

It occurred to Connor that he no longer thought of the man as Cormac, a traitor and Templar, but as Shay, a sorrowful man with a family and friends. Sometime during the long ride from New York to Massachusetts, the way he viewed the man had changed irrevocably. It was a dangerous shift, but one Connor found he could not regret.

_He is still an enemy_ , Connor reminded himself. But he found he was hoping they would not remain so.

It was near midnight when Shay rose, whispered some last words, and walked to where Connor stood vigil.

“Did you find peace?”

Shay sighed. “As much as I ever will.” He paused, adding awkwardly, “I’m sorry for making you wait. This… I had a lot more to say to him than I expected.”

Connor nodded. “We should rest. It’s a long way back to New York.”

Shay nodded, looking thoughtfully up at the manor house. “I don’t suppose, when you were making all of your improvements, you happened to come across a chest with a mark like this?” He lifted the large circular pendant at his waist. There was a strange tree impressed on it, one Connor had seen before.

“In Achilles’ room,” he said slowly. “It was yours?”

The older man nodded. “Aye, it is. I left it here, the night I fled. Would you mind if I took a look?”

Connor shook his head. “Come.” He led the Templar into the manor and directed him to the room that had been Achilles.

“This used to be a sitting room,” Shay noted.

Connor nodded, reaching under the bed for the chest. “I found it years ago. The old man was furious, but never explained.”

“He wasn’t much for that,” Shay agreed, placing his pendant in the matching slot. There was a sharp click, and the older man began rifling through the contents. A few moments later he lifted an elegant embroidery from its depths. He rearranged a few items, then shut the chest with a soft click.

“May I see that?” Connor asked.

Shay sighed. “Why not? They’re all dead anyway.” He shook out the embroidery, lifting it high.

There was a woman on it, Connor saw, fair and proud. Beside her was a man, stern with short-cropped hair. The third figure was a young man, little more than a boy, with shaggy hair and scruffy cheeks. Behind them stood Achilles, younger and happier than Connor had ever known him. At his side stood a woman Connor recognized as Abigail, and near the bottom of the image was the long-dead boy whose name Connor bore.

_I’ve seen this before,_ Connor suddenly realized, _or something much like it. I found it in the hidden room with the note about Shay._

“I know Achilles and his family,” Connor began, “but the others?”

“Hope,” Shay said, pointing to the unknown woman. “She made these: one for each of us. You wouldn’t expect she’d be the sort to touch a needle, but people rarely are what you’d think.” He smiled sadly. “I think I loved her, in a way, though she was my teacher and far too good for me.” His eyes were distant, reminiscing. “I killed her, you know, not so many years after.”

“Do you regret it?” Connor wondered.

“I regret that it had to be done,” Shay said firmly. Connor wondered how many times the man had had to tell himself that before he came to believe it.

“The one in the middle is Liam,” Shay continued. “We met when we were boys. He was my big brother, always cleaning up after me.” He paused, thinking. “He’s the one who brought me here, when I was lost after my Da vanished in the storm.” He sighed. “I did not kill him, technically. But it was my doing, all the same.

“The third is me, as you may have guessed.” Shay’s mouth quirked in a wry grin. “Now you know why I keep my hair back. I was a damn fool then, in more ways than one.”

“You were young,” Connor said.

Shay shot him a sardonic smile. “I didn’t always have gray hair, _boy._ Just wait till you get some of your own.”

Connor chuckled. He hadn’t actually meant it that way, but perhaps it was better that the older man thought so. Let him think it was gray hair that divided him from the boy he had been and not the ever present grief that haunted Shay Cormac’s eyes; a grief his child self had yet to know.

“You said everyone in the picture was dead,” Connor said instead. “ _You_ are not.”

The Templar smiled grimly. “I’ll show you in the morn,” he promised.

* * *

The morning dawned cool and grey, red tinted clouds promising rain. _A good sign_ , Connor thought. The rain would be good for the crops and spare him the labor of watering the herbs. The Assassin walked silently down the stairs, intent on not waking his guest. The Templar had opted to sleep on the manor couch, unwilling to rest surrounded by Assassins. _Understandable,_ Connor supposed.

He frowned as he approached the landing. The couch was bare, the blanket neatly folded. Shay Cormac was nowhere to be seen.

Eyes narrowing, the Assassin activated his Eagle Vision, the rare gift of second sight found in a few members of humanity. The world grew gray around him; objects of importance and value became bright in his awareness. Connor’s own form turned a pale blue. In the kitchen a red figure – an enemy- moved.

Face set, the Assassin moved soundlessly toward his foe. He paused by the kitchen door, allowing his sight to return to normal. Still silent, he entered.

Shay Cormac stood by the stove, still faintly outlined in red. “Tea or coffee, Mentor Kenway?”

Connor frowned. Still an enemy then. He’d hoped… “I nearly attacked you.”

Shay shot him an amused glance, lifting the steaming kettle. “And you’d have earned some nasty burns had you tried.”

Connor’s frown deepened. “You knew I was here.”

The older man poured the hot water over his tea, allowing it to steep. “I try to stay aware of my surroundings, especially in enemy territory.”

Connor nodded slowly. “You have Eagle Vision.”

Shay froze, then forced a smile. “As do you.”

Connor nodded again, mind churning. So Cormac had not wanted him to know that he possessed the gift. Briefly, Connor wondered if the Cormac children had inherited their father’s gift; if so it could be a great boon to the Templar Order and a grave risk to the Assassins. It was one of their stronger advantages, one very few of their enemies shared. Connor had known only one before – his own father.

But if the Cormac children had it… Connor would have to find a way to warn the other Brotherhoods. Achilles had told him almost nothing; Connor doubted the old man had told the other Brotherhoods more.

Was it the exact same as his? Or a derivative? Stronger or weaker? More flexible or limited?

But that was a concern for another time; there was nothing to do for it now.

“You are red to my sight,” he said instead. “Why?”

Cormac shrugged. “We stand on opposite sides, Mentor Kenway. Despite this temporary truce, we are enemies. Why should your sight show otherwise?”

“Am I red to yours?” Connor asked shrewdly.

There was a heartbeat’s pause, so quick Connor could not be entirely certain it was there. “Aye,” the Templar responded, and Connor knew the man was lying.

But he knew better than to show it; the Assassin had too few advantages here to squander this one. “Coffee,” he said, answering the earlier question.

Cormac looked at him blankly, then chuckled. “That’s right; you were involved in that mess of tea in Boston.”

Connor quirked a brow. “You know of that.”

Cormac nodded. “From your Da and Charles, of course. But John wasn’t too pleased with his cousin… and Sam and John – John Hancock, that is – were eager to regale me with their exploits.”

Connor stiffened. “You know the Adams? And Hancock?”

It was the Templar’s turn to stiffen, though he forced himself to relax as he added milk and sugar to his brew. “Aye. I’ve known the Adams since before I was a Templar. T’was Paul that introduced me to Hancock though.”

“Revere?” Connor questioned, uncertain whether he was dismayed or glad. Glad that Cormac had slipped up a third time, revealing something he didn’t want Connor to know? Or dismayed at the thought of those men, men he’d worked with, being friends with a Templar?

“Revere served as a soldier in the Seven Years War. I knew his commander,” a sudden, deep grief briefly shadowed the older man’s face, “and he asked me to escort Paul home when he resigned his commission. We’ve been friends ever since.”

That… was not the answer Connor had expected. It had not occurred to him to consider the earlier war, the one fought in his childhood. But many of the United States’ leaders had fought in that war. How many did Cormac know? How many were compromised? With a sudden rush of dismay, Connor recalled Nathanial Gist casually referring to Washington by his first name.

“You fought in the same war,” he said, hoping Cormac would reveal more.

“Aye,” the Templar replied, eyes distant, “we did. But,” his gaze abruptly sharpened, “so did _you_.”

Connor nodded, hiding his disappointment. Either Cormac had caught on or he had decided silence was the wiser course.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence.

When they had finished eating, the dishes washed and put away, Connor finally spoke again. “It is well into morning.”

The older man nodded, understanding. “Aye, I suppose I did promise.” He sighed, rising from his seat. “Come on then.”

He led Connor up the stairs to the lab. “It starts… well…” Cormac paused briefly, at a loss for words for the first time since Connor knew him. “Achilles sent me to find an artifact,” the Templar settled on, “one of the Precursors’ things. It went… wrong.”

Connor frowned, recalling the Apple and the twisted world it had shown him. “Those things do.”

The two men looked at one another, for once in perfect agreement. Then Shay turned to the window and the moment was lost.

“There was a map Achilles had. A manuscript. I stole it. We fought here,” he gestured at the room, “and I fell…” He opened the window, dropping to the ground below. Connor followed. “…And I fled.”

Shay began freerunning across the grounds, Connor close behind. “It was winter then, all ice and cold. They tried to stop me, delay me. I don’t think they meant to kill me, not then. Except Chevalier – but that was personal.

“I didn’t see that though. Didn’t realize, not until years after. All I saw,” his voice caught, and he took a breath before continuing. “All I saw, was all I cared for had turned against me.”

Connor’s heart wrenched in sudden sympathy, remembering how his best friend had turned on him, accusing him of betraying his people. Shay had said he believed Achilles had betrayed him; now Connor could understand why.

The older man abruptly stopped, confused. “This wasn’t here before,” he said blankly.

“The stone?” Connor asked. “Achilles said it fell from the sky before I came here.”

“And after I left,” Shay muttered. Aloud, “It was a straight drop before…” He clambered up the rock, Connor following.

The old man stood by the edge, face worn, looking down at the drop. Somewhere above an eagle screeched. “I don’t know if I meant to fall, or just the manuscript. Doesn’t matter really. I was shot in the back – Chevalier, but I thought it was Liam – and when I woke, I found the Templars had saved me.”

“Even though you were an enemy.”

“Aye,” Shay nodded. “I think I died here that night; or some part of me, anyway. The Assassin part, mayhap.” He shook his head, returning to himself. “That was a long time ago, now.” He sighed. “You’re a good man Connor, and like as not will grow to be a better one. I wish I could see it.

“And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Connor stepped back, suddenly profoundly aware of their isolation. His arms rose, Hidden Blades extending. “For what?”

Shay gazed at him sorrowfully. “For not believing peace is possible, no matter how common a cause. And,” his lips twisted in a quick, mirthless smile, “for this.”

And he fell backward off the cliff.


	6. 1784:Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

The chest was unlocked. Of course it was; even now Cormac was playing him, with the man’s journal ‘coincidentally’ sitting atop the folded Assassin robes. Connor had searched the chest hoping to find something more, but if there was anything else of value, Cormac had taken it.

The Assassin ground his teeth in frustration. _Damn_ that man.

Connor had tracked the Templar, but Cormac knew these lands as well as the Assassin did. The _Morrigan_ had hidden in a narrow river – too narrow for the larger _Aquila_ – and she’d vanished before they could find a way to trap her there. The Assassins couldn’t even be certain Cormac was aboard; no one had actually seen him embark. Connor wouldn’t put it past the man to head cross-country while they all scrambled in search of his – well, Gist’s- ship!

Connor had his Assassins scattered across the newly formed States, reaching out to all their contacts, looking for the Master Templar. He had also reached out to his allies among the American allied tribes; his own people, led by Thayendanegea, remained unwilling to work with him. The past few weeks had them all scrambling, focused on the search. And the niggling question remained: why _had_ Cormac left him alive? If the older man truly did not believe in peace, why let his enemy live? But, then, Connor was not red to Cormac – did the man not see him as an enemy? Why? Why do _any_ of it?

Connor sighed, looking down at the worn book in hands. The journal might have answers… but Cormac wanted him to read. Cursing himself for his stupidity and resolving to kill the Templar the next time they met, Connor gave into his curiosity, as he was certain the old man knew he would.

‘ _Da says I should start a log_ _,’_ the journal began, the blotchy handwriting betraying the youth of its author. ‘ _Every good captain has one, and I am to be a_ _captain one day. I’d like that; Da is a captain and I think it is the best job there is. I should date this: September 12, 1743. It is my twelfth birthday. That’s almost a man. Maybe Da will let me travel with him so_ _-‘_

The entry broke off abruptly, water rendering the remainder illegible. The next few entries suffered the same fate. Much of the early part of the journal had been damaged, possibly in the storm Cormac claimed took his father. Sighing again – Connor had been doing that a lot in the weeks since the Templar vanished – the Assassin flipped ahead to the next legible entry. It was something to do, at least.

But before he could continue Clipper rushed into the room. “We’ve found him Connor!”

Connor leapt to his feet, nearly dropping the worn journal. “Where?” He demanded.

“South Carolina – near Charleston.”

* * *

Charleston was a city divided. It was the only city Connor had visited among the States where dark skin outnumbered fair, but too few of those were free. The tension was evident. The white men feared their slaves, even as they used them; the Black people despised their owners, but somehow remained bound.

“Why don’t they rise up,” Connor asked Clipper quietly. “There are more of them.”

But it wasn’t his protégé who answered. “They did, about forty five years back. Frightened those bastards so bad they actually stopped the trade for ten years.”

“It did not work?” Connor asked.

The stranger shook his head. “We have more bodies, but they have weapons and training.”

Connor nodded, looking thoughtfully at the other man. “Come with us. Maybe we can help each other.”

The stranger’s name was Telemaque and his body was legally owned by a man named Joseph Vessey. His mind was not. He was well educated and erudite - a rarity in Charleston where men with his skin were forbidden from learning to read.

“It’s to keep us down,” the man explained. “If a man can read and write, he has the power to better himself. That’s what they,” Telemaque scowled at a pair of well-dressed merchants, “don’t want. Any time you see education denied, it’s a way of denying a person’s right to actualization.”

Connor nodded, impressed. “I never thought of it that way, but you are right.”

The darker skinned man sighed. “I’ve tried to start somethings; working with Church groups, mostly. It isn’t much but maybe, someday…” He sighed again.

“But what brings you to Charleston? You two don’t seem like most visitors.”

“We’re looking for someone,” Clipper said. “A man named Shay Cormac; has an Irish accent – kind of.”

Telemaque shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him.”

“He may be with a ship,” Connor offered. “The _Morrigan_.”

“The _Morrigan_ …” Telemaque frowned. “That name… who’s her captain?”

“Nathanial Gist.”

“Gist!” Telemaque startled, eyes lighting in recognition. “Mordecai!”

“No,” Connor said confused. “Nathanial.”

Telemaque shook his head. “No – Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t know. Mordecai Gist is a bit of a hero around these parts – to _some_ , anyway. He helped free the city from the British.”

“He’s a hero in the North too,” Clipper mused. “He saved the entire army when they retreated from New York.”

Telemaque nodded. “I can’t be certain he’s related to your Gist, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.”

“Where does he live?” Connor asked.

“A little ways outside the city,” came the quick reply. “Just ask anyone; like I said, he’s a hero around here.”

Finding directions to the Gist plantation was as easy as Telemaque had said. Connor found himself appreciating the man even more as they walked through the divided city. “He could be a great leader for his people,” the Assassin ruminated aloud.

Clipper smirked. “You’re going to recruit him, aren’t you?” He asked shrewdly.

Connor smiled. “I think so. We could use a presence here in the South.”

They continued to discuss a potential Southern branch as they walked, and in this manner arrived at the plantation of Mordecai Gist. It was a pleasant enough place, were it not for the hapless men and women working the fields.

Some of these, Connor noted in surprise, were fair. “There are white slaves?”

Clipper followed Connor’s gaze, where an overseer was haranguing a hapless man with a strong Irish brogue. “Indentured servants, technically. In practice, little difference, though the indentured will go free eventually… if they can ever repay their debts. Few can.”

Connor nodded slowly. “So they chain their own as well…” He scowled, and abruptly marched to the overseer, knocking him out with a single punch.

The Irish slave – indentured servant, Connor supposed -raised a brow. “Thank you? They’re just going to blame me, you know.”

“Tell them some crazy Indian did it,” Clipper suggested. Connor glared at him. The older man’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Do you _want_ him to get in trouble?”

Connor sighed. “Have you seen Shay Cormac or Nathanial Gist?”

The man nodded. “Nathanial is Mordecai’s cousin. Haven’t seen him in a bit though. I knew a couple o’ Cormacs back in Eire, but I doubt any were yours.” He paused. “I _can_ blame you for this,” he pointed at the unconscious overseer, “right?”

Connor nodded, already moving toward the manor house. Approaching, he saw a man playing with a young boy. “Looks like we’ve got guests, Independent. What brings you gents here?”

“We’re looking for Shay Cormac,” Connor replied.

The man, who Connor suspected was Mordecai, shook his head. “’Fraid you’ve just missed him. He headed out not an hour past.”

Clipper cursed. Connor nodded, trying to hide his annoyance. Had Cormac planned this too? Or was it a coincidence? “Thank you, Mr. Gist.”

The man waved a hand negligently. “Mordecai, please. Who should I tell him came visiting?”

Connor hesitated. “A friend from up North,” he said finally.

“Ah,” Gist laughed. “One of _those.”_ He winked. His hand was bare, Connor saw, with no mark indicating a ring had been there. This man was not a Templar.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s _gone_?” Clipper asked.

Mordecai shrugged. “He said something about visiting the Middletons, as I recall. Or maybe the Pinckneys? You could try there.”

“Thank you,” Connor said, adding, “I knocked out one of your overseers.”

Mordecai raised a brow. “What for?”

Connor shrugged. “He annoyed me.”

Gist laughed. “Then I expect he deserved it. Good luck to you – and if you see Shay, tell him he owes me a rum!”

Clipper scowled as they walked away. “I _like_ him,” he said irritably. “I hate _this_ ,” he gestured at the grounds and the slaves tending them, “but I like _him_. How does that work?”

“The world is not black and white,” Connor said thoughtfully. “It took a long time for me to see that. Many of the men here fought for freedom, yet they take it from their own.”

“He’s a hypocrite,” Clipper snapped. Then his voice softened. “But he’s also the man who saved the army – and the Nation with it. I don’t know how to reconcile that.”

Connor looked up at the brilliant Carolina sky. It was beautiful, despite the ugly things happening beneath it. “I don’t know that we can. Good men can do evil, and evil good, and most fall somewhere between. We have to remember both types of deeds, I suppose.”

“Revile them for the bad, but laud them for the good,” Clipper suggested.

“Yes,” mused Connor, as they neared a pigeon coop, “but maybe in the reverse.” He reached into the coop, lifting two birds. “Someone should watch the Gist plantation,” he explained, “and someone needs to go to the Pinckney place.”

“And we to Middleton,” Clipper stated.

“Yes.” Connor finished attaching his messages, watching the pigeons take to the air. “Now we run; we can still catch him.”

They freeran through the green acres surrounding the city. There was no time to talk now; they had to hurry if they were to catch their prey.

The Middleton Plantation was much larger than Mordecai Gist’s. The manor house loomed large over the wide green lawns and paved walkways. Something about the place made Connor wary.

“We should be cautious,” he said. Clipper nodded in silent assent.

Connor activated his Eagle Vision. Immediately numerous red forms appeared, scattered among the slaves toiling on the manicured lawns. “Stay close,” the Assassin whispered.

The two carefully navigated their way to the manor, dodging patrols and blending with the slaves struggling in the heat.

“A lot of security,” Clipper whispered. “What are they so scared of?”

“I don’t know,” Connor replied, troubled.

As they approached the manor, Connor began looking for an entrance. “There,” he pointed, “a window.” He moved forward, knowing his protégé would follow.

“There’s a mark here,” Clipper said when they were inside. “Looks like a small, thin blade scraped against the sill.”

“A Hidden Blade.” Connor’s eyes narrowed.

Clipper nodded. “That’d be my guess.”

“Cormac,” Connor hissed. “He’s here.” He activated his Eagle Vision again, scanning the gray tinted world. “There.” He pointed at a door glowing a faint gold. “Cover me.”

Clipper nodded, double checking his musket as he brought it to bear.

Connor slunk silently down the hall, opening the door and lunging in one quick motion.

Cormac cursed, dropping the papers he was holding and leaping behind the desk, out of immediate range.

There was a body on the floor, Connor saw, an older man in fine clothes. The master of the house, no doubt. His security had done him little good.

Cormac had shifted into a defensive stance, ready for a second attack. He wore a black half mask marked with a red cross. A red cape with a black Templar sigil hung down his back, it’s fluttering movements drawing the eye. “I see you caught up to me,” he said, his casual tone belying his wary eyes.

Connor moved forward cautiously. The older man had moved faster than expected and the Assassin no longer had surprise to aid him. Cormac hunted Assassins; this would not be an easy fight. “What did that man do to wrong you?”

“Henry?” Cormac glanced at the body, seemingly unconcerned. “See for yourself.” He suddenly kicked the desk, sending it flying at Connor.

The Assassin cursed, leaping over the desk and readying himself for the attack that would follow.

It never came. Glass shattered as Cormac flung himself backward through the window, twisting to hit the ground on all fours.

Cursing the Templar for a coward, Connor followed, shouting “Get those papers!” Whatever those were, Cormac had been willing to kill for them. Then, the Assassin was on the ground, rolling to decrease speed and break his fall, then up and running, chasing the traitor.

Cormac glanced back, his face set. “I don’t have time to play, boy.” He ran through a group of guards crying, “Assassin!” as he went.

As one, the men turned their weapons on Connor. The Assassin moved dodging the initial volley. He didn’t give the men time to reload, instead stepping among them and striking out with his Hidden Blades. Two men fell instantly, the Blades cutting through their throats like butter. Another followed, clutching the throwing knife buried in his chest. The fourth Connor gutted, and he sank to the ground desperately clutching at his entrails.

But the fifth had managed to reload his pistol, pointing it at Connor’s chest with trembling hands. The Assassin froze.

A shot rang out and the guard fell, a gaping hole where his face had been. Clipper saluted from the manor window, before clambering onto the roof. Connor returned the gesture, scanning the grounds for Cormac.

The Templar was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes: 
> 
> Telemaque - Better known as Denmark Vessey. His attempted slave revolt was ended by the Templar Thomas Pinckney. He had a fascinating life, which I’m not getting into here.
> 
> Mordecai Gist - Revolutionary war hero who saved the Continental army during the Battle of New York. We owe this guy a pretty big debt! (Well, Americans do.) Unlike his uncle and cousin, Mordecai was not a Templar. His influence made him a potent ally, however, leading to his later death at Assassin hands.
> 
> Henry Middleton - Early American politician, he attempted to forge a peace with Britain before the Revolution broke out. His son, Arthur Middleton, would later sign the Declaration of Independence. Our records indicate he was killed by Connor, which is obviously wrong.
> 
> Indentured Servitude - Basically, white slavery. Officially Indentured Servants were supposed to go free, but, in practice, they rarely did. Their kids were free, though, which was probably the biggest difference. Otherwise they tended to be treated in a similar manner as slaves of other races.
> 
> Stono Rebellion - the Stono Rebellion was a major slave revolt in Charleston. While it failed, it did succeed at shutting down the international slave trade there for ten years. Unfortunately, it also led to some pretty horrific laws, like those forbidding Black people from learning to read.


	7. 1784: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

‘ ** _Something strange happened when I killed the pirate. I don’t know what. It was like we were all alone, but everyone was there. He spoke to me, but Da says he heard nothing. I don’t know what to think.’_**

Connor knew what Cormac had referred to. He had experienced it too: the moment before a spirit returned to the Great Mother. Not every death brought it; only those of great significance. The Oiá:ner had explained it to him when it first occurred; it seemed there had been no one to do the same for Cormac.

Connor frowned, setting the journal aside. Clipper had still not returned to the _Aquila_. They had been separated after the debacle at the manor and Connor was growing increasingly concerned. His only solace was things had not gone as planned for Cormac, either.

There was a loud curse, and the sound of rushing feet. Connor hurried from his cabin, his Blades ready for release.

Clipper lay on the deck, the ship’s surgeon bent over the marksman’s bloody leg. “It’s fine,” he snapped. “Just a graze.”

The surgeon shook his head. “Not in my opinion.”

“Cormac?” Faulkner demanded from his place at the helm.

Clipper nodded. Connor scowled. “You were supposed to return here! Cormac is too dangerous; you should not have gone after him!”

“I didn’t.” Clipper winced as the surgeon abruptly pulled the bandages tight. “I saw Gist – Nathanial – and thought he’d lead me to the Morrigan. Took me to Cormac instead.”

“And you tried to fight him.” Connor stated.

Clipper shook his head. “He came out of an alley and shot me. Don’t know _how_ he knew I was there!”

“I told you,” Connor said, “he has Eagle Vision.”

“That lets you see through walls?” The marksman challenged. “I was behind a fence – not out in the open!”

Connor froze. “I… don’t know. I have not known it to do so before.”

“You might have asked me,” grumbled Faulkner. “Cormac can mark people. That’s how he hunts them; once marked, he can follow wherever they go.”

_A useful skill for a hunter_ , Connor thought. Pity he was only learning this _now._

Clipper’s face grew pale. “He can see through _walls?!_ How…”

Faulkner spat at the deck. “I told you – he _hunts Assassins_. You think just anyone can do that? Thirty years, and he’s killed everyone who ever tried to stop him.” A harsh silence followed, broken only by the roiling waves against the stern.

At last Connor asked, “Why did you not tell me before?”

Faulkner flushed, suddenly sheepish. “I thought you knew,” he admitted. “You said you knew he had Eagle Vision - which I’d completely forgotten until you brought it up. Foolish of me, I know, but it was a long time ago. You have the Gift too, so I assumed you’d know what it could do.”

Connor shook his head. “Mine doesn’t work like that. I can only see what is before me.”

Faulkner shifted uncomfortably. “Well, how was I to know?” He demanded. “I don’t have it!”

Connor scowled. “I suppose you could not.” He glanced up at the sky where a bald eagle circled. “Eagle Vision does not manifest the same in everyone. Cormac is only the fourth I have known to possess it, and the others did not have that skill.” His gazed sharpened, focusing on his first mate. “But if you remember _anything else-_ ”

“I’ll tell you immediately,” Faulkner promised.

Connor nodded, satisfied. “Do not _assume_ I know.”

“Can we get back to ‘seeing through walls’ now,” Clipper demanded, limping over. “Because that, frankly, is terrifying. How do you _hide_ from someone like that?”

“You don’t,” replied Faulkner. “Just hope he isn’t after you.”

Connor sighed. “The man isn’t some fantastic creature from one of Boone’s stories. Making him out as one is foolish. He is a man. Nothing more.

“Do you remember anything else about Cormac’s Gift, Faulkner?”

The first mate’s face screwed up as he desperately tried to recall conversations of decades past. “I think – not _sure_ mind - but I _think_ he can only mark so many. And the marks don’t last forever, as I recall. But-” He spread his hands helplessly.

Connor frowned. “It is something, at least. We know he can do it, but he may not realize that we know, which can only be to our advantage.”

The others voiced their assent.

“Clipper, you have the documents?”

The marksman nodded, a strange expression coming over his face. “I do, but…” He hesitated.

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I don’t think this is what we thought,” Clipper began. “The victim, well… he had a Templar ring. I brought it with me.” He reached into his pocket, offering the offending object to Connor. The Assassin took it. “There was a stamp too. Whoever this Middleton was, he was a Templar.”

“That explains the guards,” Connor mused. “They must have thought Cormac an ally.”

“Why would Cormac kill one of his own?” Clipper wondered.

“He was a traitor once,” Faulkner suggested. “Maybe he’s turning coat again.”

“Maybe,” Connor said. “It _is_ possible.” But something didn’t quite add up for him. If Cormac had turned against the Templars, why antagonize the Assassins? Wasn’t one enemy better than two?

Connor sighed, frustrated. The Templar’s – if he even still _was_ one - motives remained a mystery. “I’ll take the papers.”

Clipper nodded, handing them over. “You won’t like it,” he warned. “It isn’t good. I’m _glad_ that man’s dead.”

Clipper was right. Connor did _not_ like what he read.

‘ _Mr. Barlow,_

_Your financial troubles are nearly at an end. Dragging Canoe’s little war has given me the perfect pretense under which to negotiate some excursions of my own. I do hope the Chickamauga continue resisting our residency; I foresee great profit in this unofficial war of ours._

_The cargo should arrive on Culpepper Island by early November, as scheduled. You have done well to acquire the necessary ships; only see to the transfer of the goods and you will be amply rewarded._

_**H. Middleton’** _

Connor snarled, enraged. “He speaks of the Oyata’ge’ronoñ as _cargo! Goods!_ They are _people_! People who were here before-”He cut himself off abruptly, taking a breath. Rage would not help him here, however much it simmered beneath his skin.

“Ready the sails. We make for Barbados.”

* * *

Connor paced angrily from one end of his cabin to the next. Bad enough that Middleton was capturing men and smuggling them into slavery. Worse, they were Oyata’ge’ronoñ – _Aniyunwiya_ , as they called themselves. They were kin to the Haudenosaunee, though long sundered.

Connor found himself both annoyed at and grateful to Cormac. Grateful the man had ended Middleton’s evil; annoyed the Templar had taken the kill for himself. Connor would have liked to have been the one to end the slaver’s life.

He frowned, looking out the porthole at the crystalline seas. It would be awhile yet before they reached the south-east coast of Barbados. Connor needed to calm himself before they arrived; he had learned the lesson of entering battle enraged.

He glanced about the cabin, his gaze falling on Cormac’s journal sitting innocently on the desk. It would do for a distraction. It might even give him some insight on the maybe Templar the Assassins were almost certain to find on the Island.

**_‘November 1, 1745_ **

**_Lisbon is beautiful, and the girls more so. Da and I escorted some; they were to become sisters at the Convent. It seems a waste to me; they are far too pretty for the habit.’_ **

Connor chuckled. He had never been the sort of boy to lust after petticoats, but many he knew were. It seemed Cormac had been of the latter sort.

The rest of that entry had been washed away. Connor flipped through the notebook, hoping to find more legible ones.

‘ ** _gave me a rum. Da laughed but said not t████k I haven’t had before? Liam and sn████o mad but completely wo████’_**

Connor frowned, trying to make sense of the blurred words. Liam… he had been the man in the embroidery, the one Shay had called brother. Liam _seemed_ to have appeared frequently in the log, but there was so much damage that Connor could not be certain.

He sighed. He would have to give up on the early part of the journal for now; when he returned to Davenport he could experiment in the lab and see if something might emerge.

He turned to the later portion of the journal, where the entries were mostly intact.

**_‘Why could I save you and not him? He was everything and you’re just a stupid book!’_ **

Connor blinked, startled at the sudden shift in tone. _I was right, then,_ he thought sadly. _The damage was from the storm Shay lost his father in_.

‘ ** _May 14, 1747_**

**_‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say you are stupid. I’m the fool who couldn’t save him. Da gave you to me. A captain needs a log ████’_ **

The remainder of that entry had been soaked into illegibility, but Connor knew _this_ saltwater had not come from the sea. Recalling his own parents’ deaths, his heart went out to the boy the Templar had been, grieving, orphaned and utterly alone.

The next few entries were short and abrupt, following a similar theme.

‘ ** _May 30, 1747_**

**_‘Found work at the docks. Men took me drinking after.’_ **

**_‘June 17, 1747_ **

**_‘Worked. Went drinking.’_ **

**_‘July 1, 1747_ **

**_‘Got in a fight. Got drunk. Maybe the other way?’_ **

**_‘July 12, 1747_ **

**_‘Woke with a girl. She’s pretty. Name’s Dinah.’_ **

Connor choked, surprised, and reread the last entry. _I highly doubt that was how you met your wife,_ he thought, recalling the stately Mistress Cormac.

He read on, momentary amusement fading as he did. Just how often had Cormac been drunk, or in fights, or woken with strangers, all at the age of fifteen? It was a wonder the man had survived! Connor recalled himself well at that age; hurting and angry and barely willing to listen. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward Achilles for guiding him through those turbulent times.

He read on, glad when the tone of the entries changed again.

‘ ** _October 4, 1747_**

**_‘I saw Liam today. Well, he saw me. Helped me out of a situation that ‘was entirely your own damn fault, Shay!’ I asked him where he’d been. He says he’s joined some organization dedicated to saving the world. Sounds like some damn fools’ cult to me.’_ **

Connor laughed. That was _one_ way to describe the Assassins.

‘ ** _October 5, 1747_**

**_‘Liam and I ran over the rooftops, as though we were children again. We never ran so fast then though._ ** **_Liam has told me more of his cult. Seems they have enemies who want to enslave the world. He and his friends work to keep it free._ ** **_Liam has asked me to join him. I did not answer. If Liam is right, if what he says is true, then the world I have known is a lie. I do not know if I am ready to believe that. Liam does, though, and I believe in Liam._ ** **_I will tell him yes tomorrow.’_ **

Connor frowned. It was one thing to know the (maybe) Templar had been an Assassin; it was another to read of how it had come about. The danger was already present; Cormac’s loyalty had been to a _person_ – Liam - and not the Creed itself.

**_‘October 9, 1747_ **

**_‘Liam took me to a place named Davenport to meet his allies; Assassins, they are called. We met Achilles, who is the Mentor and in charge. He is a negro, which I did not expect; Liam tells me Assassins do not care for such things. I agree; what does a man’s skin matter? All are equal before the seas. Tomorrow Achilles will decide if I may join his Brotherhood; I hope it will go well.’_ **

**_‘October 10, 1747_ **

**_‘Achilles has a wife, Abigail. She is a very good cook. I would stay just to eat from her table._ **

**_‘Achilles asked me about my past and my family. He told me of the Assassins’ Creed. I am not to swear it yet, he says. I must understand it first. The tenets seem wise to me:_ **

**_‘Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent_ **

**_‘Hide in plain sight_ **

**_‘Never compromise the Assassin Brotherhood_ **

‘ ** _But this I cannot fathom: Nothing is true; Everything is permitted. What does this mean?’_**

Connor’s brow furrowed. He had never sworn the Creed directly, neither he nor Achilles feeling it necessary. His own acolytes had simply pledged themselves to the Assassin mission. Obviously, things had been different before.

_Nothing is true; Everything is permitted._ That had always been the most difficult part of the Creed. Each Assassin had to find their own answer to that question, or so Connor believed. Had Cormac been unable to reconcile with it?

‘ ** _October 12, 1747_**

**_‘Today, Liam introduced me to some of the other Assassins. Hope is quite pretty, but also dangerous. I like her. Kesegowaase is a Wolastoqiyik man. He is quiet and strong; I find him intimidating. Chevalier is a git. I hope he drowns.’_ **

Connor paused. Chevalier… Shay had mentioned him. He was the one who shot Cormac from behind.

‘ ** _November 2, 1747_**

**_‘There was a British attack on a nearby tribe. I am not certain which one. Liam gave me a fine sword. We beat the Redcoats bloody! They ran so fast you’d have thought we’d lit them on fire!_ **

**_‘Achilles says the lobsterbacks are controlled by the Templars. I may not understand the Creed, but I do know evil when I see it. If the Assassins stand against that, then I stand with them!’_ **

The next few entries spoke of training, bonding with the Davenports, befriending the other Assassin trainees, and rekindling Shay’s friendship with Liam.

‘ ** _December 20, 1747_**

**_‘I know what my strange sight is! Kesegowaase explained it to me. The Assassins call it Eagle Vision. Everyone seems very excited about it.’_ **

_He forgot this entry_ , Connor realized. It seemed there was more in this journal than Cormac intended. Pleased, Connor eagerly continued.

**_‘January 8, 1748_ **

**_‘I was injured the other day and woke in the spare bedroom at the manor. Liam says Chevalier did not mean to knock me out. I know better. That man is loathsome.’_ **

**_‘January 10, 1748_ **

**_‘I am still in the manor. Someone, I think Liam, has put my trunk here. I am still feeling dizzy and ill. Abigail thinks I may have a fever. She has been very kind. Is this what it is like to have a mother?’_ **

**_‘January 18, 1748_ **

**_‘I am to stay in the manor, it seems. They say it is only until I recover, but I am nearly well and no one has spoken of leaving. I am glad. I think I would be happy to stay here forever.’_ **

_It is strange_ , Connor thought, _to think of Shay so young._ But young he had been, and desperate for kinship.

‘ ** _June 18, 1748_**

**_‘Achilles took me to the cliff today. We leapt into the waters below. Leaps of Faith are remarkably fun! After, Achilles asked if I was ready to swear to the Creed. I told him I still do not understand it. I want to, but I don’t. He says that is fine; it took the great Assassins past many years to discover the meaning. Time will give it to me._ **

**_‘We will hold the ceremony tomorrow at sunset. I am excited, but nervous.’_ **

‘ ** _June 19, 1748_**

**_‘I have sworn to the Creed and received my robes and Hidden Blades. I am an Assassin now, in service to a greater cause. Perhaps for the first time, I know I am truly doing right.’_ **

There was a frightening sincerity to those words, a pure and earnest belief. Shay had said something similar on the ride to Massachusetts, Connor recalled. He reread the lines and, for the first time, _understood_.

The boy who wrote this and the man he had become – they truly were one and the same. Shay Cormac acted of a pure belief in the righteousness of his cause. He was a _zealot,_ and that was a very dangerous thing.

_He will sacrifice everything,_ Connor realized with dawning horror. _He **has** sacrificed everything; on the altar of his beliefs he will burn everything he cares for whole. He will burn the world if he believes it right._ Connor had known men like that, and they were among the most dangerous.

_I can never trust him,_ Connor realized sadly. _But I can_ use _him. If I can sway him to the cause of peace, I will have no greater ally._ That was a very big _if_ , but Connor hoped regardless.

He continued reading the journal, following Cormac’s journey from devotion to doubt. It was well into the night when Connor came to the last entry.

‘ ** _They won’t listen. Not even Liam. I have no choices left. I am going to take the Manuscript and the Box. I’ll destroy them if I can; hide them if I cannot. The others will likely kill me when they learn of it. They will call me a traitor and revile me as such._**

**_‘I find I cannot bring myself to care. What happened in Lisbon will never happen again.’_ **

The journal ended there. Knowing the events of that night, Connor was not exactly surprised.

He felt sorry for Cormac – the man had not had an easy life – but that did not excuse the Templar’s later deeds. Connor could sympathize, but he would never agree.

Still, he understood his opponent now, if opponent Cormac was. The Templar’s motives, unlike his character, remained a mystery the words of Cormac’s younger self could not ravel. Perhaps the answers would be found on Barbados, now only hours away. For now the Assassin would rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> George Barlow - Washington's first aide de camp. For some reason he was kept out of the loop on the assassination attempts. I wonder why?
> 
> Dinah - We don't have much information on her, unfortunately. We're pretty sure she's the mother of Ranulf and Robyn Cormac, though.


	8. 1784: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

 _Barbados is a beautiful land with an ugly history_ , Connor decided. The pristine beaches shone in the bright sun and the clear ocean waters sparkled like a gem. But this was a land of slaves, and Connor despised it for that. He had sailed the seas about the island for months, hoping to intercept the Middleton’s transport. Instead they had found - and stopped - many other convoys, but not the one they sought. It had been good work regardless.

“ _Morrigan_ , ho!” came the cry from the Crow’s nest. Connor raised his spyglass, searching the seas for the distinctive red sails.

The _Morrigan_ sailed forward and starboard of the _Aquila_ , barely visible in the distance. “We follow,” Connor decided, claiming the helm, “but we don’t let her see us.” Carefully maintaining distance, but not so much as to lose the smaller ship, Connor maneuvered the _Aquila_ up the Barbados coast.

It was almost peaceful; clear skies, brilliant seas, a steady wind. A bald eagle soared above, unusual for this region. Any other day Connor would have enjoyed this. Any day, but not this one. The thought of the Oyata’ge’ronoñ sapped all comfort the exquisite vista might bring.

“We have a problem,” Faulkner suddenly said. “The _Morrigan_ is headed straight to Culpepper. The waters there are dangerous. I don’t think we can get through.”

Connor frowned. “And the _Morrigan_?”

“She’s smaller,” the old seaman replied. “And, no offense, she has a better, more experienced captain.”

Connor shot a mock-offended look at his first mate. “You don’t think I’m as good as Gist?”

Faulkner startled, then chuckled. “Gist, maybe,” he admitted. “Keep forgetting he’s Captain now. But it’s Cormac at the helm today. That man was born to sail.” He couldn’t quite hide the grudging admiration.

“You think he can make it to Culpepper, then?”

Faulkner nodded. “He’ll tear out his bottom, if we’re lucky, but I doubt it. He knows the seas too well.”

Connor nodded. “How close can we get?”

Faulkner directed the Assassin to a mark on the chart. “There’s an old smuggler’s cove on the edge of St. Philip’s. If we break off the chase now, and head there at full speed, we might reach the island around the same as Cormac. He’ll have to go to oars to maneuver those shoals.”

“We’ll do that, then,” Connor decided, quickly calling out the orders. He turned the wheel as he did, setting the _Aquila_ on her new course.

They soon made land in the secluded cove. “We run from here,” Connor announced.

Clipper scowled at his leg. “I’m out, then. Can’t run with this.” He jabbed at his wound, wincing.

Connor understood the marksman’s frustration. “The _Aquila_ is yours, then. Faulkner?”

“I’m ready,” the first mate stated. “Let’s kill some slavers.”

The two Assassins ran along the coast, seeking a way to the tiny island. This portion of Barbados was nearly deserted, and they met no resistance as they ran.

“There’s a ford here somewhere,” Faulkner explained. “But I’m not certain where.”

Connor activated his Eagle Vision. Immediately, a set of footprints, lit in gold, appeared. “Someone came this way,” Connor noted. “I’ll see if I can find him; he may know the way. Keep looking for the ford.” Faulkner acknowledged the order, vanishing on down the coast.

Connor turned inland, following the tracks. Freerunning allowed him to cover distance quickly and he soon came upon a man drawing notes. “Do you know where I can find the ford to Culpepper?”

The other man scowled. “You’re not from here,” he said bluntly, his accented voice harsh. “What are you smuggling?”

“I’m not,” Connor replied. “I’m pursuing one.”

“What’s _he_ smuggling?”

“People.”

The stranger stuck out a dark hand. “Busa,” he introduced himself. “I’ll help you. The ford can be tricky; you’ll need a guide.”

Busa, Connor discovered, could freerun. “I learned in my home -” he named a place in a tongue Connor did not know. “I was captured by enemies and sold to a strange land to serve a people unlike my own. I would not see it done to another.”

“Nor I,” said Connor. “I am part of an organization fighting such things. We have no one here, not yet. But if you seek to end tyranny and injustice, and would pledge to fight for all, perhaps you could be the first.”

“I will think on it,” Busa said. “Tell me of your cause as we run.”

Connor did so as they raced across the sands, retrieving Faulkner on the way. Busa had been right about the ford, Connor saw. The path wove among sharp rocks and the Atlantic tides cold easily steer the unwary astray. The Assassin was eminently grateful for their guide.

“This slaver… he is one of those you call Templars?” Busa asked.

“I believe so,” Connor affirmed.

“And that is his ship?” The African man pointed at a familiar, red-sailed, vessel.

“No,” answered Connor. “But I believe _those_ were.” He indicated the still smoking hulks which had recently been ships.

“He’s still as good as ever,” Faulkner noted ruefully.

Connor had to agree. Maneuvering a ship, even a smaller one like the _Morrigan_ , through those rocky shoals took great skill. To do so while fighting a battle outnumbered… Connor would have to ensure he never fought Cormac at sea. He doubted the _Aquila_ would fare any better a second time.

“That is the sign that you showed me,” Busa argued, pointing at the Templar cross. “The one of your enemies.”

“It _is_ a Templar ship,” Connor admitted as they stepped on to Culpepper. “But not an enemy today, if I am right.”

“I certainly hope you are,” came the not-quite Irish drawl. “I still need to catch Baylor, and don’t fancy my chances fighting you.”

“You don’t think you can win,” Faulkner challenged.

“I don’t care to try,” Cormac replied, stepping out of the whaleboat. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn at Middleton’s, Connor noted. _A uniform of some sort?_ Gist and a young man in the familiar garb of the Haudenosaunee peoples followed Cormac, helping him pull the boat ashore. “Thank you, lad,” the Templar said to the youth.

“Of course, Da,” the young man replied.

Another of Cormac’s children then. The man had a great many. “Which son is this?” Connor asked.

“Conlan Patrick,” Shay replied, a note of pride in his voice. “My heir,” he added as he helped his expectant wife from the dinghy.

“You brought your wife?!” Faulkner demanded. “When she’s with child?!”

Mistress Cormac struck the older Assassin with an icy glare. “ _Some_ among these slavers,” she said coldly, “do not know to keep their hands from where they are not wanted. A woman’s touch may be needed.”

_That is wise_ , Connor thought, _and not something we considered._

Beside him, Busa nodded. “I have seen such things. It is good you brought a woman.”

Shay frowned. “ _You_ , I don’t know. You’re not part of _his_ Brotherhood.”

That was true, but Cormac shouldn’t have known it. _He has better information than we knew,_ Connor realized. _We need to be careful._

“I met him here,” Connor said aloud. “He offered to guide us.”

“Great,” Nathanial groused cheerfully. “More Assassins.”

“I have not decided,” Busa said.

Cormac gazed thoughtfully at the other man. “No, I think you have,” he said finally, turning away to scan the island’s shores. Busa did not disagree, Connor noticed.

“This island isn’t very big,” Conlan said, after a moment. “We should find Barlow soon, Da.”

Connor activated his Vision, numerous golden footprints appearing in the sand before him. “They went that way,” he pointed.

“How do you know?” Cormac asked, eyes narrowed.

Connor shrugged. “I can see where they walked,” he answered. The others nodded, walking where the Assassin had shown.

“Useful trick,” Gist commented.

“ _He_ ,” Faulkner glared at Shay, “sees through _walls_.”

Connor stifled a groan.

Gist laughed boisterously. “Fair enough!”

As they crossed the first third of the island, Cormac slowed, speaking quietly with his wife. “Can your recruit protect Magdalene?” He asked bluntly.

“Busa?” Connor queried.

The African man nodded. “I can.”

“Good,” Shay said. “Con, stay with your stepmother.”

“Da!” The youth protested, but Cormac shook his head.

“I took you because I needed one of their own kin. I have _him_ now,” he nodded at Connor, “so stay with Maggie until I call for you.”

Conlan sighed, running a hand exasperatedly through his dark hair. The ring on his finger caught the light. He was a Templar, Connor realized, and likely all of Cormac’s adult children as well. His stomach twisted at the implications. Connor had no desire to wipe out an entire family. _Perhaps it will not come to that_ , he hoped.

Cormac turned to his wife. “Will that do, Madame?”

Magdalene nodded, spreading a cloth on the ground and laying out herbs. “Do _try_ not to do anything _too_ foolish, Shay.”

The man smiled innocently. “Do I ever, Madame?”

Mistress Cormac smiled serenely at her husband. “Always, Monsieur.”

Cormac laughed, but quickly sobered as they moved on. “Baylor is mine,” he stated.

“Because he is one of your Order.” Connor guessed.

“Because he is a traitor to it,” Cormac corrected.

Faulkner snorted. “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

The Templar shot a blank look at the old seaman. “Why,” he said coldly, “do you think they sent _me_?”

With that conversation ceased, for the encampment lay before them.

The Oyata’ge’ronoñ were kept in pens like animals – men, women and children separated – and guarded by scruffy mercenaries. _Former soldiers,_ Connor thought, _like those we fought in Massachusetts._ Men who needed more than the compromise Congress had offered.

“If we can speak with the warriors,” Connor suggested, “they may help us.” Baylor had managed to gather quite a force; the Assassin could count over a hundred men.

Cormac nodded, his face grave. “Good idea – Nathanial, do what Mentor Kenway said.”

“Aye, aye, _Master_ Cormac,” Gist replied teasingly, beginning to circle around the encampment.

Connor frowned, but Faulkner spoke before he could. “ _Connor_ should go. He’s-”

“Nathanial speaks their language,” Cormac snapped, pulling on his mask. “Neither of you _do_.”

Something else the Templar had no business knowing, Connor noted irritably. _How much **does** he know?_ “You had this well planned,” the Assassin said instead. “Your wife for the women and medicine; your son for a familiar face; Gist to translate.”

“Yes,” Cormac replied shortly. “And seeing as he’s nearly there, I think a distraction should be in order.” He pulled a strange rifle off his back and raised it high. There was a small _POP!_ The guards suddenly turned on one another, the orderly encampment turning to chaos.

_What kind of weapon is this?_ Connor thought.

Faulkner stared. “When did it start doing _that_?” He demanded. Connor made a note to quiz the man later.

Cormac’s smirk was just visible beneath the mask. “Benefits of being a Templar. Shall we?”

As one the three rushed to the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Culpepper Island: Basically a very big rock off the edge of Barbados, with lots of smaller rocks and dangerous tides.
> 
> Busa: The Assassin Busa led the largest slave revolt in the history of Barbados. Interesting guy, and worth looking into.
> 
> Conlan Patrick Cormac: Shay's oldest child from his first wife. The 'heir' part is questionable; Iroquois marriage ceremonies weren't exactly recognized by the British. We don't really know much about him, as opposed to his younger twin, George Monro.
> 
> Oyata’ge’ronoñ: Cherokee


	9. 1784: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

Battle was a field of chaos and Connor reveled in it. He dodged a wild shot, his dart taking the shooter through the throat. It retracted in a bloody spray, even as Connor swung his tomahawk, the oversized Assassin symbol glinting in the blinding sun. A guard fell, skull cloven in two, bits of blood and brain clinging to the axe.

Connor struck again and again in a deadly maelstrom of steel. A Hidden Blade took a man in the neck, spurting blood staining the Assassin’s white robes. The tomahawk’s spike broke a man’s spine and he fell screaming, never to walk again. The hunting knife eviscerated another, his intestines falling to the ground.

Connor kept moving.

Somewhere Faulkner’s pistols boomed, the old sailor providing cover fire. Cormac stalked the shadows, wielding dagger and longsword in a deadly dance.

One by one, their foes fell, but still the three men were outnumbered, slowly being pushed back. Connor threw his hatchet into a guard’s back. The man fell screaming, allowing Shay to gut another. The two stood side-by-side, Assassin and Templar, surrounded by foes, guarding each other’s backs.

A sudden shout had the guards turning. The Oyata’ge’ronoñ ran free, snatching up weapons and screaming war cries. Nathanial Gist ran at their fore, his pistols smoking.

“There!” Shay suddenly cried, breaking away. “Baylor!” The older man ran through the battlefield, longsword and dagger cutting through foes with a single-minded grace. Cursing, Connor ran after him, striking out with tomahawk and Hidden Blades in turn.

The slaver, Baylor, paled at their approach. “Shay,” he gasped. “What are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same George,” the Templar replied sadly. “Are our Oaths worth so little?”

“What right have you to speak?” The slaver spat, fear making him angry. “You come to kill a fellow Templar!”

“I come,” Shay said, calm and sorrowful, “at the orders of the Inner Sanctum.”

Baylor’s eyes went wide and despairing. “It is _you_ , then,” he said despairingly. “The Black Cross!”

Shay winced. “Has that idiotic name made it all the way _here_?” He demanded irritably.

Connor frowned. “What is the Inner Sanctum?”

The two men glared at him, forgetting their enmity instantly. “Nothing that concerns you!” Baylor snapped, as Shay hissed, “Templar business Assassins needn’t know.”

Connor blinked, startled at the vehemence of the response.

Cormac smiled at Baylor, raising a brow. “Not wholly a traitor,” the Templar said softly. “I’m glad, George.”

The slaver sighed, his shoulders slumping. “It’s my illness,” he admitted sadly. “It put my family in debt. I was desperate, Shay. I had to do _something_. You’ll care for them, won’t you?”

“I will,” the Templar promised. He pressed his hand to Baylor’s trembling chest, the Hidden Blade burying itself deep.

Immediately, Connor activated his Eagle Vision. The world shattered about him.

Shay knelt on the ground, Baylor’s body in his arms. Connor felt slightly guilty – the time between was reserved for the spirits of the killer and dying – but curiosity won out. He wanted to see what would pass between the Templars.

“All this time…” Baylor choked out, “and still… you are an Assassin.”

“Yes,” Shay agreed softly, “but now I kill for the right cause.”

“An Assassin,” the dead man whispered, “who is a Templar true.”

“May the Father of Understanding guide you,” Shay whispered as he shut Baylor’s eyes. The world reformed, the spirit passing on to the Great Mother.

Baylor lay dead on the ground, a peaceful expression on his face. Shay stood above him, Blade still extended. Around them, the battle was winding down, the last few guards surrendering or fleeing, Faulkner and the warriors in pursuit.

Shay sighed, retracting his Blade and removing his mask. “I hate killing friends,” he muttered. Connor could sympathize. “Brigid!” The Templar suddenly called. A large bald eagle flew down, alighting on Shay’s arm. “Go get Maggie for me, will you?” The eagle inclined her head and soared off.

Connor watched, bemused. _I wonder how long it took him to train her_.

They stood together on the quieting battlefield, watching the eagle soar, neither wishing to break the solemn moment.

“We should check on the captives,” Connor said at last.

Shay nodded. “Maggie’ll be here soon,” he said quietly. “We should see if anyone needs care.”

Gist joined them as they approached the pens holding the women and children. He spoke softly with the captives, reassuring them in their own tongue, as Shay and Connor worked on the locks.

“We have a problem,” Nathanial announced. “These are only half the captives. Some of them were separated in Florida.”

Shay frowned. “Nothing we found indicated they were planning to separate them.”

“I don’t think they were,” Nathanial explained. “It sounds like some locals got greedy.”

Shay’s eyes darkened as he turned to Connor. “Seems I’ll be staying longer than expected, Mentor Kenway. Tracking our greedy Floridians may take awhile.”

Connor nodded slowly. “Why not work together?” He suggested. “We did so here and it was not so terrible a thing. Besides,” he added wryly, “you’ll have an easier time if we are not working in opposition.”

Nathanial shrugged. “Not a bad idea, Shay. And I live here – unlike you. I’d like to see my son grow up.”

Shay snorted. “You don’t have a son,” he reminded Gist dryly.

Nathanial smirked. “Wut-teh does,” he said smugly.

The name clearly meant something to the Templars, because Shay suddenly grinned. “Well, congratulations then. Does this lad have a name?”

Nathanial nodded, sporting a delighted grin of his own. “Sequoyah. I’ll have to track him down; see if he’s really mine.”

_Ah. So **that’s** what this is_, Connor realized. “Is this common among the Templars?” He demanded. “My father did something similar,” identical, actually, “and you,” he nodded at Cormac, “have children among the tribes.”

The two Templars glanced at each other, and burst into laughter. “It does seem to have been a trend, doesn’t it,” Shay admitted. “Haytham had you; Charles had the twins; William had… how many did William have Nathanial?”

“Damned if I know,” the man chortled. “Damned if he knew either.”

Shay snorted. “And I have my five, and now Nathanial’s got his.”

“And most of us were adopted too,” The Templar captain added.

Connor nodded thoughtfully. It was strange to hear the Templars joke about the men he killed. They spoke as if they had been old friends – which, he supposed, they were. He could not simply forget that on other days these men would be his enemies.

Other days, but not this one.

“We are agreed,” Connor said firmly. “We work together to bring the Oyata’ge’ronoñ home.”

The two Templars shared a long look. Then Shay nodded, his eyes hard. “Agreed. We work together – for now.”

Connor extended his hand and the Templar took it. “You don’t wear a ring,” the Assassin asked, surprised at the lack of a hard band beneath the glove.

Shay hesitated, then sighed, pulling off his _left_ glove. “I do,” he said, displaying the band. The ring had been damaged, Connor saw, the white surface blackened by some great heat.

“I thought it was worn on the right?”

Shay’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “It is.” He flipped his hand over. Above the Templar’s ring the brand of the Assassins was burnt black. On a sudden instinct, Connor activated his Eagle Vision.

Shay Cormac glowed a bloody red.

* * *

End Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> The Black Cross: Secret Inquisitor of the Inner Sanctum. Since it's a secret, there's no real way to know if Shay ever held the role.
> 
> Inner Sanctum: Major governing body of the Templar Order. But you knew that already, right?
> 
> The Father of Understanding: You're a Templar; you understand why I'm not explaining this!
> 
> Brigid: Shay Cormac's eagle. She stayed with him for a very long time; bald eagles can live to be over seventy!
> 
> Florida: Not yet a State, and owned by the Spanish.
> 
> Wut-teh: Cherokee woman, mother of Sequoya
> 
> Sequoya: He created the Cherokee syllabary, allowing his people's language to be written down.


	10. Interlude:2020

Interlude: 2020

* * *

Juhani exited the Animus. He typed a few commands into the system, then settled back to wait. The computer would need some time to compile and cross reference the data.

Even without Cormac’s memories, the experience had been enlightening. The Templars were well aware of Busa and Denmark Vessey’s – then known as Telemaque – affiliations with the Assassins. Both had gone on to cause great trouble to the Templar cause; Busa moreso than Vessey. Thomas Pinckney had, fortunately, been able to subdue the latter.

It had been interesting to observe Cormac in his role as the Black Cross. Juhani hadn’t realized the title wasn’t formalized yet. Nor had he expected Cormac to be responsible for Henry Middleton’s death; Abstergo records put the blame for that on Connor.

_I wonder if his son ever found out_ , Juhani wondered idly. The younger, better known, Middleton had served the Order well.

The computer beeped, and Juhani returned his attention to the matter at hand.

**‘Memory Compilation Complete: Simulation Accuracy 72%'**

Not quite what Juhani had hoped, but definitely workable. Resolved, the Black Cross returned to the Animus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Thomas Pinckney - Governor of South Carolina, Minister to Britain and Vice Presidential candidate, like the other members of his family, Thomas Pinckney served his order well. As governor of South Carolina he was instrumental in ending the slave revolt instigated by the Assassin Denmark Vessey.
> 
> Arthur Middleton - Signer of the Declaration of Independence, Middleton was a loyal Templar. He was killed in early 1787 by an Assassin.


	11. 1785: Chapter 1

**Part 2:1785**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

“You may want to reconsider running this year, John,” Shay said casually, reaching for the jam. It was an unusually nice day for January in Massachusetts and he was taking advantage by spending the day with an old friend. And if a few plots happened to be set in motion, well…

“You realize,” Hancock said dryly, “if I don’t, Bowdoin will win.”

“I do,” Shay mused as he glanced out at the busy Boston streets.

Hancock followed the Templar’s gaze. “The people won’t like it,” he warned.

“I imagine not.” The people wouldn’t like it at all, actually. That was rather the point.

“They’re likely to revolt,” Hancock continued, his eyes narrowed, scanning Shay’s face.

_He knows me too well_ , Shay decided. _I have to be careful._ Too obvious, and Hancock wouldn’t be able to claim plausible deniability. Too subtle, and the man would be unwilling to work with the Templar. _Keep it to hypotheticals and possibilities._

“I would not be surprised,” Shay said slowly, “if they do that anyway.”

Hancock’s eyes widened, then narrowed again. “True, true. More wine?” Still willing to listen then. Good. Shay was relieved; he really did _not_ want to kill another friend. He had too few left and too many had already fallen at his hands - George Barlow latest among them.

Aloud he replied, “I would, thank you.”

The two men sipped at their cups, enjoying the exquisite vintage. _John certainly has a knack for wine. An import from Concepción?_

Finally, Hancock spoke. “Bowdoin will raise the taxes.”

Shay snorted. “And collect them.”

“Hah!” Hancock chuckled, pouring them both another glass. “Yes.” They grinned at each other, knowing Hancock’s refusal to collect taxes was a large part of his popularity – and the State’s debt.

“A pity your health is not what it was,” Shay offered suggestively. Hancock had two great advantages: his money bought him popularity and his gout let him keep it.

“And you never change.” The smug reply letting Shay know he would have to try harder. Well, two could play at that.

“I’ve been fortunate, I suppose,” Shay said lazily, entirely unconcerned. _Now, to see…_ Hancock _should_ be able to figure it out, or Shay had badly misjudged his old friend.

“I wonder,” Hancock said slowly, “how long the people will endure?”

_Wise John,_ Shay thought fondly. “Not long, I’d imagine.” He poured himself another glass of wine, savoring the flavor. It really was an excellent vintage.

“A pity the Confederation government is entirely useless,” Hancock probed, canny eyes sharp.

Shay inclined his head, giving his old friend this victory. “I’ve heard some interesting ideas for fixing that,” the Templar allowed.

Hancock smiled grimly. “As have I. But no one seems to be listening.”

Shay grinned. _Now_ they were in agreement. “Perhaps they just need the right push.”

Hancock raised a brow. “A populist revolt, perhaps?”

Shay barely managed to mask his surprise with a chuckle. _I really need to learn not to underestimate him._ “What was it Thomas says? ‘A little rebellion now and then is a good thing?’”

Hancock laughed. “Thomas always did have a way with words,” he said, and Shay knew he’d won.

“His Declaration is a marvelous read,” the Templar agreed, truly relaxed for the first time, “made all the better by the extravagant signature adorning it.”

“Hah!” Hancock grinned broadly. “If history remembers me at all, I’ve no doubt it will be for that.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Shay cried, relief (and wine) making him giddy. “John Hancock and his marvelous signature!”

“Shay Cormac,” came the equally jovial rejoinder, “the most meddlesome troublemaker I’ve the privilege of knowing!”

Shay laughed. “You know me too well, John.”

Hancock suddenly sobered, his eyes piercing. “Do I? I’m not so certain.”

Shay was suddenly very aware of the Hidden Blades at his wrists. “Well, better than most do, these days.” His tone was light, but his eyes were hard. _Please don’t push me, John._

Hancock leaned back, abruptly relaxed again, the somber moment gone. “Someday Shay, you’ll have to tell me what you’re really all about.”

_Wise John_ , Shay thought once again, this time with relief. “Oh, that’s simple,” he answered cheerfully. “World domination. Everyone knows that’s what we Freemasons are after.” He winked. A moment passed, then –

“Hah!” Hancock crowed. “Nearly had me, Shay! For a minute, I almost thought you meant it.”

“Perhaps I did,” the Templar teased.

“Well, then,” Hancock said slyly, pouring Shay another glass, “I suppose it is a pity my poor health will prevent me from stopping you.”

* * *

Shay walked along the Boston harbor, dark coat pulled tight against the chill ocean wind.

Some men went looking for Saints, others for sinners. The Templar searched the wharfs for revolutionaries, a task made far simpler by the location. He could almost imagine William’s tea was still floating in the waters.

The men on the docks weren’t particularly happy, even for Boston. There were numerous complaints about the foreign tariffs, Shay noticed. His British allies were doing their jobs well. Others were unhappy over the new taxes and the increased price of goods.

And others…

“You _knew_ I would pay you back in trade!” A man snapped furiously at a merchant. “We made that agreement in good faith.”

“And times change,” the merchant replied coolly. “I only accept coin now.”

“Yes, times change,” the first man snarled, “because men like me fought to _change them._ Fought old George and his lobsterbacks because they were taking what was _ours_ by right, only for the damned State to turn and do the same to us!”

“For God’s sakes, Luke,” the merchant hissed. Then he sighed. “I can ignore the debt, all right? But I can’t give you more. I’ve my own taxes and suppliers to pay – damned Brits have us over a barrel – and _they_ insist on coin.”

Luke’s face darkened. Shay decided to intervene. “ _I’ll_ barter,” he said. “It isn’t right that a man should suffer because some fool legislators want to line their pockets.”

Luke’s glare turned on him. “I don’t need charity.”

“No,” Shay agreed. “You need a fair chance. That’s what we fought for, isn’t it?”

The other man frowned, then stuck out a hand. “Luke Day, 7th Massachusetts Regiment.”

The Templar smiled as he took it. “Shay Cormac, Continental Navy.” Close enough, anyway.

Day nodded. “Well, Mr. Cormac. You see what things are like here. We fight for our freedom, only to find ourselves bound by our own legislature. What say you to that?”

“I say,” Shay said slowly, “that this is hardly liberty.”

For the first time, Day smiled. “Then you and I may be able to do business after all.”

Shay smiled grimly. “Aye, I think we can. And if you’ll come with me to Groton, I think we may find another partner for our _business_ there.”

* * *

Groton was not an especially nice town, but it was where Shay would find the man he needed. Day had been a lucky find; Job Shattuck had been carefully chosen.

Shattuck had already led some efforts against the Massachusetts taxmen in the latter days of the Revolution. A veteran of two wars, he was no stranger to violence or leadership. He would be an excellent man to lead the charge.

“Mr. Shattuck,” Shay said, entering the man’s front yard. “I’m Shay Cormac. I was hoping to meet with you.”

“What for?” Shattuck asked, strapping a feed bag to one of his oxen. Shay went to help.

“A friend of mine…” a fellow Templar actually: Caleb Strong “…suggested that you and I might hold similar views.”

“Which are…” The man asked warily.

“That we didn’t fight and die for freedom, just to bend knee to the rich men of Boston,” Shay said firmly.

Shattuck smiled. “Well, then. I’m busy now, but there’s a tavern a little ways out of town. I’ll be there tonight, if you’d like to discuss these ‘similar views.’”

Shay nodded, returning the smile. “Mind if I bring a friend?”

Shattuck nodded thoughtfully. “Change takes more than two,” he agreed. “Bring him along.”

* * *

Hancock had surprised Shay. The sly politician had not refused to run for reelection – he’d chosen to _resign_ , not that anyone knew that yet. Strong had found out somehow, and Shay had received the word as he left Shattuck’s.

It was good news, but an unfortunate side effect was Shay’s plans had to accelerate to compensate. He’d be spending the next few months racing across the States, something he was not looking forward to.

_Wise John_ , Shay thought irritably. _You always did know which way the wind blew_. And the wind in Massachusetts blew where the Templar directed, albeit faster than intended.

_I could wish it wouldn’t blow so cold, though,_ Shay thought with wry amusement, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. It had been awhile since he’d had to brave the northern winds.

The shabby tavern he entered was warm, which was all that could truly be said for it. It was a dull, gloomy place, with poor lighting, poorer food, and whiskey which was scarcely worth the name – and certainly not the price. The sort of place Shay had known intimately once… but that was a lifetime and several fortunes ago. He found himself feeling awkward and uncomfortable, where once he would have been at home.

_When did I change so much?_ He wondered. It was an answer he did not want to delve too deep in.

The men he had come to meet were huddled about a table near the back, nursing their watered-down drinks. “Mr. Shattuck,” said Shay as he joined them. “Mr. Day. We’ve all had some trouble with taxes.”

“Yes,” snapped Day. “We fought a war because they were unbearable and now our legislature gives us worse?”

“I didn’t fight two wars for some _tax collector_ ,” the word was a curse in Shattuck’s mouth, “to take my property. I didn’t vote for _these_ laws, and I certainly didn’t _fight_ for them.”

Shay nodded, sipping at his own drink, doing his best not to gag at the taste. Dimly, he recalled a time when he couldn’t taste the different notes in wine. It was a surprisingly long time ago. Setting aside the foul brew, he chose speech instead. It was safer than the ‘whisky’. “I agree. It hardly seems right that we fight to preserve our rights to our land and freedom, just so some wealthy merchants can snatch it up.”

“Why would you care, Cormac?” Day asked shrewdly. “You’re a merchant yourself.”

“Aye,” Shay agreed. “But I grew up on the docks, living hand-to-mouth, never knowing what the next day might bring.” A trifle exaggerated, but not far off. And it had been true after the storm, if only because Shay drank away any coin he made. “I made my fortune in the Seven Years War, and I’m glad I did, for my children grow up in a comfort I never knew. But I’ve not forgotten my past, nor where I came from. I fought in this war and the last for the same cause as you, and I’d gladly fight for it again.”

“As would I,” Day stated proudly, slamming his bottle down. “They think they can just burden us with their taxes? We who fought and died to end such tyranny?” His voice rose, filling the tavern. The other patrons began to stir, voicing their agreement.

“Here! Here!”

“Aye!”

“Damn those merchants!”

“We tarred and feathered those tax-men before – maybe they need a reminder!”

_This,_ Shay decided, _is getting out of hand._ What he wanted was more than just a simple riot. It was time to calm the crowd, but not so much they forgot their fervor. “A round of drinks,” Shay called, “to honor Mr. Day!”

In the din which followed, as the crowd eschewed anger for a glass, Shay nearly missed the man approaching their table.

“I heard what you said,” the stranger began –

“Who didn’t?” Shattuck interrupted, glaring at Day. “Damn near started a riot!” Day at least had the grace to look sheepish.

“Yes, well,” the stranger smiled nervously. “I’m as pleased by these new taxes as any of you. I’ve been speaking with some of my neighbors, and none of us have been doing well. The State’s demanding we pay _them_ when _they_ still owe _us._ ”

“Sit down,” Shay offered. “Let me get you a drink Mr…?”

“Shays,” the stranger replied. “Daniel Shays.”

“Well, Mr. Shays,” Shay said with a wry smile, “I’m Shay Cormac.

“Welcome to the Revolution.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> John Hancock: Governor of Massachusetts, Patriot, famous for his signature on the Declaration of Independence.
> 
> Bowdoin: Also a Governor of Massachusetts, but only when Hancock was 'too ill' to run.
> 
> Thomas Jefferson: Third US president, ambassador to France, Founding Father of the United States. Best known for writing the Declaration Hancock's signature is on.
> 
> Freemasons: a society most of the Founding Fathers - and some Templars - were a part of. Are we SURE they aren't trying to take over the world?
> 
> William Johnson: Indian Commissioner for Britain, and a Templar. Was killed by Connor after negotiations went VERY sour.
> 
> Luke Day: Revolutionary twice over. One of the leaders of Shays' Rebellion, the revolt would have been named for him, but his intensity scared the Regulators.
> 
> Groton: Town in Massachusetts.
> 
> Job Shattuck: Leader of Shays' Rebellion (one of the two men on the famous woodcutting) and veteran of the Seven Years War and the Revolutionary War.
> 
> Caleb Strong: Massachusetts politician and delegate to the Philadelphia Convention
> 
> Daniel Shays: the man Shays' Rebellion is named for... supposedly.


	12. 1785: Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: 1785**

* * *

Shay tossed Hope high in the air, smiling as the girl screamed giddily. He was glad to be back on the Morrigan and gone from icy Massachusetts. Not that rainy Virginia was much better, but at least the temperature was bearable. _It’s been too long since I braved the Arctic if Massachusetts winters are too cold_ , he thought ruefully.

Shay raised his daughter to the edge of the ship, allowing her to see the waters below. “That’s the Potomac River, Hope,” he explained. “It’s going to be very important in our Nation’s future.” _Assuming matters go as planned, that is._

The girl giggled, wiggling free of her father’s grip. He let her go, smiling indulgently as she ran across the deck. His children were his greatest accomplishment.

“We’ll have to invite Madison,” Randolph said, continuing as though they had never been interrupted at all. “We need him involved.”

Shay nodded. Randolph’s ever-unfazed demeanor was one reason Shay liked him. “Involved, yes. There, no. Madison will take over if given half a chance. We need to push Washington. He needs to believe his nation needs him. Only then will he stand.”

Randolph looked down at the Potomac. “Does it ever feel strange working to raise Washington up, after all the time we spent trying to pull him down?”

Shay shrugged. “I wouldn’t know; I’ve never attempted the latter.” Randolph shot him a startled look. _So he can be fazed_ , Shay noted with amusement. “Haytham and I never agreed on that particular point,” Shay admitted. “I had my men watching George’s back even as Haytham and Charles tried to stick a knife in it. Probably why Haytham ordered me away,” he admitted.

Randolph frowned. “I’m surprised he let you get away with it.”

Shay shrugged. “Plausible deniability is a lovely thing. Officially, I didn’t _know_ the plan was to kill Washington, so Haytham couldn’t complain about my interfering in something I had no knowledge of.”

“Officially,” Randolph said dryly.

“Unofficially…” Shay grew somber, as he always did when he thought on the past. “I’m the one who killed Lawrence,” he reminded his fellow Templar, “back when I was still an Assassin. He wanted his little brother safe, and I was hardly going to deny him that because Haytham wanted to avenge his lover.”

“That wasn-” Randolph began. Shay silenced him with a glare.

“It damned well was. Part of it, at least.” Shay paused. “Not the whole, mind. Haytham would never have acted if he did not believe it benefited our Order, nor if he thought it would hurt our cause. But it played a role.

“Haytham knew my past. He knew how far he could push me. So long as I didn’t ‘know’, we could both avoid the issue. And I was overseas, or in the South, or on the sea, away from any place it might be relevant.

“I do wish I might have seen his face when he realized I’d replaced Barlow with Hamilton, though.”

“Quite angry, I expect,” Randolph said dryly.

Shay grinned. “Aye, but he’d not have wanted to _show_ it.” The smile turned sad. “I wish I could have given him a proper goodbye.”

Randolph nodded. “He was a great Grandmaster. As I’m sure his successor will be.”

Shay sighed, his smile fading entirely. “Sometimes I wonder what he was thinking,” he admitted. **_ALL_** _the time, more like._

“That you’d lead us well,” Randolph replied firmly.

“I hope I can,” Shay murmured fervently, eyes glued to his children, playing innocently on the deck. “Father of Understanding, but I _hope_ I _can_.”

He sighed, shaking his head and forcing his mind to return to more relevant matters. “You’re certain you can arrange the meeting Edmund?”

The Virginian nodded. “But I may not be able to attend if I’m to delay Madison.”

“Don’t worry,” Shay assured him. “I will.” He smirked, good humor returning. “ _Someone_ has to convince George he’s needed.”

He finished discussing business with Randolph, sending the man off with letters for the other members of the Rite – and for some influential friends who knew nothing of the secret, endless war. There was also one for a non-Templar who did know: Joseph Brant.

“Anything decided?” Magdalene asked, later, as they bundled the children off to bed.

“I’m not cut out for this?” Shay offered.

She shot him a wry glance. “Fatherhood? I’d think, Monsieur Cormac, you ought to have figured that out after the first.”

Shay laughed. “I’ll have you know, Madame, the first came in a set.”

She smiled, and Shay’s breath caught, struck again by his lady wife. He never _would_ understand why she picked him, but she had, and he was glad beyond words for that.

Together, they put the children to bed, then headed for their own. “Do you really think,” Shay asked later, _his_ Maggie curled about him, “that I can do this?”

“I think,” she murmured, “You already are. Now, go to sleep, mon amour.”

So he did.

* * *

The next day saw Shay at Mt. Vernon, a place he had long been fond of. He’d thought it beautiful the first time he’d seen it, that long-ago night when he’d come to kill Lawrence. He could remember the music, the heady smell of perfume, the brilliant fireworks, like it had been but yesterday.

And he could remember that slight resistance, the dull squelch of the blades piercing flesh, the feel of heart stopping to beat, as though it had been a moment past. That night saw him begin the journey to his _true_ path, the one he was walking even now.

Today, the grounds of Mt. Vernon were chill and wet, the weak grass covered with dirty, quickly melting snow. A solemn rain fell, soaking the grounds and any foolish enough to walk them. The vineyards were bare, scraggly vines reaching toward the heavens in sorrowful benediction.

_All in all_ , Shay thought, _a rather miserable day._ He repeated the thought out loud.

Martha laughed as she set down the tea tray. She had chosen to serve them herself, Shay knew, out of respect for her guest’s distaste for slavery. It was a distaste she and her husband shared, though they seemed unwilling to relinquish themselves of the practice. They intended their slaves to be freed upon their deaths, Shay knew, if not before.

He could forgive them their indiscretion; he had done ill deeds of his own and would do more, for all he did – and would – regret them. George and Martha Washington, for all their flaws, were far better people than he would ever be. Shay found their friendship to be an honor and a pleasure. He was glad to see them happy, enjoying their retirement. A pity he was going to have to force them to claim greatness once more.

“I was sailing the Potomac the other day,” The Templar said casually.

George nodded, pouring his wife some tea. “I’ve heard there’s been some problems there of late. It’s concerning; I’ve some interests of my own there.”

Shay nodded, adding some cream to his own cup. Haytham had introduced him to the odd British custom years ago and he’d found himself inexplicably fond of it. “Yes. Apparently, Maryland wants better access to the river, or perhaps it was the tolls they objected to? It may have been Virginia with the complaints; I’m afraid I did not pay Mr. Randolph the attention he deserved.”

Martha laughed. “It’s the baby, isn’t it?” she asked, teasingly. “She’s keeping you awake.”

Shay chuckled. “Aye, you’ve the right of it Martha. Little Moira has quite the set of lungs on her.”

“That _is_ good to hear,” George said softly. “We were worried, with the winter birth. It is good to hear she is doing well.” It often surprised Shay a man with such a soft voice had come to command so many. He would command even more, if the Templar had his way.

Shay smiled, turning his thoughts to his youngest. “Aye, she is strong. And it’s not been so bad a winter.

“But I am worried about the river. I’ve another to provide for now, and all her siblings. Liam and Christopher need tuition, and Abby’ll be needing a dowry. The Revolution’s left all trade a mess, and I can’t afford to have the river shut down atop of the British tariffs.”

“I could contact Thomas Stone,” George offered. “We’ve spoken before and he may know something.”

“I’d be much obliged if you did,” Shay replied gratefully. What he’d said had not been entirely untrue; the best lies were. The British _were_ charging ridiculous tariffs, and Shay _did_ have a great many children to care for. He was fortunate in that regard; most of his children had survived their infancy. “I’m up to my ears in children these days. It’s a wonder anything gets done, what with all the ruckus.”

The Washingtons chuckled. “Cherish these years, Shay,” Martha advised. “Soon they’ll be all grown and want naught to do with you.”

Shay laughed, and the remainder of the day was spent on lighter topics. The sky was already dark when Shay made his farewells, embracing George and Martha by turns.

“I’ll keep you informed,” George promised, and Shay knew he would. George Washington was nothing if not a man of his word. Shay had created the most ridiculous tall tale about a cherry tree centered entirely on that. His children loved it.

_It is a pity_ , Shay thought regretfully as his carriage rode off, _to use them so. But there are none better suited._

The new government would need a leader, and that leader would be George Washington.

* * *

Shay waited outside the House of Delegates, watching the people traversing the bustling Richmond roads. The city, one of the oldest in the new Nation, had recovered quickly from the war, as had its State. Unlike Massachusetts, Shay did not need to seed a rebellion here, though he would not be entirely surprised if one sprouted on its own. The Nation was of that sort of mind, largely because it scarcely _was_ one.

No, Shay didn’t need an uprising from Virginia. He only needed two men, and he’d already spoken with one. The other was in the nearby building, finishing work. Shay would meet _him_ soon.

_And after this_ , the Templar thought, _South Carolina._ _I need the Pinckneys._ And wasn’t that going to be fun.

The members of the House began to emerge, talking and debating over the day’s affairs. Shay activated his Eagle Vision, scanning the delegates. His target glowed a bright gold, standing out from the pale white of the crowd. Shay _marked_ him, sealing the man in his awareness. He released his Vision, smiling as he followed the still-glowing man through the streets.

“Mr. Madison,” Shay called, once they were relatively alone. “May I speak with you?”

Madison turned, startled. “You are?”

“Shay Cormac,” the Templar introduced himself, extending a hand.

“James Madison,” the man replied automatically, shaking it. “What did you wish to discuss?”

Shay smiled. “Word among the people is that you argued against the printing of money. You’ve also claimed that we need more control over international shipping. I’m a merchant. Devalued currency and British tariffs are strong concerns of mine. I was wondering if you might have time to discuss the matter?”

Madison nodded thoughtfully. “I do have some opinions regarding those issues, yes. Perhaps we -”

He was abruptly interrupted. A man rushed at the politician, knife in hand. “Coward!” he howled.

Without hesitation, Shay shoved Madison aside. The Templar deflected the thug’s first blow, knocking the knife aside. He dodged the second, using the momentum to twist the attacker around. Shay’s Hidden Blade buried itself in the base of the man’s neck. The attacker fell with a soft sigh. The entire fight had taken seconds.

“What was that all about?” Shay wondered.

“I don’t know,” Madison replied, shaken. “I know some don’t like that I didn’t fight, but that was hardly my choice. The army wouldn’t have me.”

Shay shrugged. “In my experience, Mr. Madison, sense doesn’t work on men like these.”

Madison nodded. “I’m afraid you are right Mr. Cormac.” He looked sadly at the cooling corpse. “You have my thanks; I doubt I could have fought him off.”

“Not at all,” Shay assured him, “I would have done the same for any.”

“Be that as it may,” the politician replied, “I am in your debt.”

Shay nodded. “If you insist, Mr. Madison, you can repay me by lending me your ear for a time.”

“Gladly,” Madison agreed. “But perhaps we could do so somewhere else?”

“Of course.” Shay’s tone was light, but his eyes were dark as he walked off with Madison. He didn’t bother to spare a glance back at the would-be assailant. It didn’t really matter who the man had been. Shay was certain Randolph had found someone suitably anonymous.

It had worked with Benjamin in Paris, after all. It stood to reason it would do the same for Madison in Richmond.

“Tell me, Mr. Madison,” the Grandmaster began. “Are you acquainted with a Mr. Hamilton, by any chance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Hope Cormac: Named for either for Hope Jenson, or for her older sister who died in infancy. Little is known of her activities as an adult.
> 
> Potomoc River: a river running between Virginia and Maryland. Later, Washington DC would be situated on its banks. Even later, West Virginia.
> 
> James Madison: fourth president of the United States. His ideas helped shape the Constitution and he wrote the original Bill of Rights.
> 
> Edmund Randolph: First attorney general of the United States
> 
> George Washington: First President of the United States
> 
> Lawrence Washington: George Washington's older brother. A loyal templar, he was killed by Shay Cormac when the latter was still an Assassin.
> 
> Alexander Hamilton: Second aide de camp Washington, first US Secretary of the Treasury, instrumental in the ratification of the Constitution, and responsible for the first major sex scandal in the US Federal government. A Templar and Hunter, he often ran by his own rules. Died at the hands of the Assassin Aaron Burr.
> 
> Joseph Brant: also known as Thayendanegea, he was a famous Mohawk war chief, who fought for the British in the Revolution. His wide spread connections, and his powerful wife, made him a man of great influence, which he sought to use to better life for his people.
> 
> Mt. Vernon: the one in Virginia, obviously, not the one in New York. Home of the Washingtons.
> 
> Martha Washington: Wife of George Washington. The first First Lady.
> 
> Moira Cormac-Kenway: Probably best known for retiring from the Templar Order to marry Achilles Kenway. Their homestead was considered neutral ground for the duration of Moira's lifespan. As with all Cormacs who managed to survive Assassins and illness, she was very long lived.
> 
> Liam Adewale Cormac: Younger twin to Christopher. Known for his nasty temper and loathing for anything to do with the Assassins. Ironic, seeing as he was named for two of them.
> 
> Christopher Cormac: A Hunter known for his tracking skills, he loved to explore and study. Of Ruth's children, he was the closest to his mother's heritage. Named for Christopher Gist, who was his godfather.
> 
> Thomas Stone: signer of the Declaration of Independence, who worked on the Articles of Confederation. Was a delegate to the Mt. Vernon Conference
> 
> The Cherry Tree: Oh, is THAT how the story got started? I suppose it makes for a good bedtime story.
> 
> House of Delegates: Government of Virginia
> 
> Richmond: Capitol of Virginia
> 
> Pinckney: a powerful Templar family in South Carolina
> 
> Benjamin Franklin: American Founding Father and famous inventor. One of the few men considered a friend by both Orders.


	13. 1785: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

_It’s a good thing we made good time to South Carolina,_ Shay thought. He had a great deal to do, and not much time to do it. If Randolph was right – and Shay had no reason to believe otherwise – he had only two months to ensure Connor was well occupied, away from Templar affairs.

Which was why Shay was here, seeking the most powerful Templars – perhaps the most powerful men – in the South.

“Shay Cormac to see Mr. Charles Cotesworth Pinckney,” the manservant announced.

Shay smothered a sigh, sitting rigidly on the settee. The white coat with its red trim still felt stiff and uncomfortable, despite its perfect tailoring. But Shay Cormac alone could never ensure the Pinckneys support; only the Grandmaster of the American Rite might do so, and _that_ title – however awkward the fit – was Shay’s. He was fairly certain it still squeaked.

“Grandmaster Cormac,” Cotesworth Pinckney proclaimed, bowing floridly. “How lovely to see you again.”

_Yes,_ Shay decided. _Still squeaks._

“Mr. Cotesworth Pinckney,” the Templar replied, inclining his head. It was always a dance with Charles and his family. Shay had to maintain his authority – authority he was still uncomfortable with – while offering the respect due a Templar of Cotesworth Pinckney’s influence. “The pleasure is mutual.” It was true; Shay had no doubt their _displeasure_ was equal.

A slave entered the room, carrying a chilled bottle of wine. He opened it carefully, eyes wary, and filled the Templars’ glasses.

“Thank you,” Shay said, masking his fury. Cotesworth Pinckney knew _exactly_ how he felt about that _vile_ practice. This was a test.

“You do realize,” Shay said coldly, when the poor man had departed, “that I prefer to be served by _freemen?”_

Cotesworth Pinckney swirled his wine languidly. “Come now, Grandmaster,” he smiled coolly, “you know it is a matter of status here. A man without slaves is a man without power.”

“I did not say you should free them,” Shay replied, eyes hard. He might _wish_ to, but a civil war within the Rite would serve no one. “Only that I prefer you provide freemen to serve _me._ ”

Cotesworth Pinckney met Shay’s gaze. He seemed to come to some decision, putting down his glass with a soft _clink_. “May I speak freely, Grandmaster?”

_Done with dancing then,_ Shay thought. _Good. My feet were getting tired._ “Please do.”

A brief smile crossed Cotesworth Pinckney’s face. “Gladly, Grandmaster.” He paused, gazing thoughtfully about the ornate room. “In truth,” he began, “I am more inclined to agree than you might expect. Not entirely – I do feel the institution has its place – but not in the manner we have here in the South, where men are little more than cattle.

“But we cannot simply abolish it. The people are not ready. They would rebel and we lack the means to stop them.”

“I know,” Shay admitted. “I’m not such a fool as you may think.”

Cotesworth Pinckney nodded. “Then you understand. We must work within the system that _is_ , Grandmaster. We are not _Assassins_ , seeking to overthrow the whole.”

_So that’s it._ “I am _not_ an Assassin,” Shay said coldly.

“I am well aware. But, and forgive me my boldness, Grandmaster, you do sometimes still think like one.” Cotesworth Pinckney paused. “It is not a bad thing,” he allowed. “You think of things none of us would. Grandmaster Kenway was the same. But it can also blind you, as it could him.

“The South is not ready for such change. Its economy is too deeply bound with slavery to simply end it. We must allow the system to continue until we have the power to alter it to our design.”

“A system _you_ benefit from,” Shay pointed out.

Cotesworth Pinckney spread his hands wide. “I don’t deny it,” he said, “but what shame is there in that? Did you not benefit from your privateering, Grandmaster?”

“I did,” Shay admitted.

The Southern Templar nodded. “If one _must_ make use of a system, however foul, why should he not gain some measure of pleasure from it? Besides, if I did not, I would not have the power I do.”

“Perhaps not,” Shay conceded. “But how do you _use_ it?”

Cotesworth Pinckney hesitated, glancing about warily. He stood up, seating himself closer to Shay. “Rutledge – you know of him?”

“Yes,” Shay replied. “Your recruit.”

Cotesworth Pinckney nodded. “He intends to introduce legislation to end the international slave trade in South Carolina. I will ensure its passage. It is not an end, but it is the prelude to it.”

Shay considered. It was a good plan, but… He made a decision and felt a piece of his soul die with it. “No.”

His fellow Templar frowned. “No? Grandmaster, did you not–”

“I heard,” Shay interrupted. “And the answer is no.”

Cotesworth Pinckney’s eyes darkened. “May I ask why, Grandmaster?” He asked stiffly.

Shay stood, beginning to pace. Moving made things easier somehow, as though he hadn’t just become complicit in a system he hated. “I intend to create a new government here, Charles, one unlike any other there has ever been. A strong Federation government, controlled by a system of checks and balances, much as our Order is. You and your family, as leaders of the South, will play a role in that. I’ve no doubt it will be an important one; that cannot be risked.

“But even more: By standing against this legislation _now_ , you may compromise on it _then._ South Carolina will continue to trade in lives for now, so that when the time comes the whole _Nation_ will cease to do so.”

_How many will be bought and sold across the seas before my plan bears fruit?_ Shay thought sadly. His plan was no kinder spoken aloud… but it was _right_ all the same.

For the first time since they had met, back in the early days, before the Revolution, Cotesworth Pinckney’s gaze held true respect. “Haytham _was_ right. You _are_ a fine Grandmaster.”

Shay sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the title resting on his shoulders. _Damn you Haytham,_ he thought bitterly. _I never wanted **this!**_

He could swear the British bastard was laughing at him. ‘ _That’s what you get for trying to subvert me, Shay. How does it feel to be in charge?’_

_Damned awful, Haytham,_ Shay thought miserably. _Damned awful._ “You should contact Jay,” he told Cotesworth Pinckney, thrusting the self-pity aside. He’d always have time for that later. “He was Weeks’ pupil and he has some good ideas about gradual manumission.”

Cotesworth Pinckney nodded thoughtfully. “The South is not ready for that,” he said after a moment. “But in a few decades, as slavery becomes less profitable… yes, I will speak with him – discreetly, of course.”

“Of course,” Shay agreed. “I’d expect nothing less.” He finished his glass and poured himself another. _How much will I need to drink for the alcohol to numb the guilt?_

“You will have to argue for slavery,” the Grandmaster said quietly, “so that neither too much nor too little is conceded.”

Cotesworth Pinckney nodded. “I understand. And my brother and cousin will as well, once I speak with them. Unless you wish to do so yourself?”

“I’m pressed for time,” Shay admitted. “If you would…?”

“Of course,” Cotesworth Pinckney agreed. “But then why _did_ you come, Grandmaster? I trust you will not object if I say your instructions are… a tad immature?”

Shay smiled grimly. “You’re right, of course. I need a distraction. The Assassins are based in Massachusetts; I need their eyes elsewhere.”

Cotesworth Pinckney frowned, thinking. “There are those fools in Frankland. Franklin. Whatever they’re calling themselves these days.”

“It’s not enough,” Shay said, “not on its own.”

“They’re fighting with the Chickamauga, same as we,” the Southern Templar said thoughtfully. “The Spanish are involved somehow as well.”

“Are they?” Shay said smugly. “Well, then. I suspect that may do nicely.”

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

Shay had one last mission to complete in Charleston before he could leave the city, hopefully for good. For all its beauty, he hated it. The business of Charleston was slavery, and the Templar despised it for that. He despised himself more for compromising on it.

But Shay had come to America with a mission, and he would do whatever was necessary to see it through. Today’s task was part of that.

He emerged from the carriage, entering the majestic Snee plantation, home of Charles Pinckney, cousin to Thomas and Charles Cotesworth Pinckney. All three would be here today, for the same reason Shay was.

A manservant took his overcoat, revealing the white and red garments beneath it. “This way, sir.” Shay followed him to a shadowed parlor.

The three Pinckneys stood about a simple table, waiting. Shay took his place at the head. “Charles Cotesworth Pinckney,” he said, “you recommend Edward Rutledge to our Order?”

“I do,” the man replied.

Shay nodded. Cotesworth Pinckney picked up a neatly-folded robe and belt and laid them on the table. “Call him in.”

Edward Rutledge walked nervously into the room. Shay could sympathize; he remembered his own initiation like it was yesterday. _And now I’m the one leading it,_ he thought, forcing down his own panic.

Solemnly, Rutledge laid down his ceremonial sword.

“Do you swear to uphold the principals of our Order and all that for which we stand?” How long ago had he sworn those words? How far had he gone keeping them?

“I do.”

“And never to share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?” How many years working in the shadows?

“I do”

“And to do so from now until death – whatever the cost?” How many dead in the keeping of these oaths?

“I do.”

“Then we welcome you into our fold, brother. You are now a Templar, harbinger of a New World.” _Whatever the cost to bring it about_. “May the Father of Understanding guide us.” _Please._

“May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

Shay extended a hand, offering Rutledge his ring. The man took it with trembling fingers, placing it on his right hand. The Grandmaster clasped it warmly. “Welcome, Edward. I know you’ll do us proud.”

So maybe that wasn’t part of the ceremony. Maybe it should be.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

Shay headed out early the morning after the ceremony. He had work to be done, and it was already February. The passage of time was wearing on him. He needed more of it, damn it! At least he was on the _Morrigan_ again, even if he would have to abandon her again soon.

“She always was my favorite,” he confided to Maggie. “Even after all these years. Don’t tell her sisters, though!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” his wife replied, bemused.

Shay smiled sheepishly. “You think I’m being foolish.”

“Non, Monsieur,” she answered cheekily. “I think you are being superstitious. A perfectly fine thing for a sailor.”

“You’re still mad that I pierced the boys’ ears,” Shay accused.

Magdalene considered that for a moment. “Oui, Monsieur. I am afraid so.”

Shay laughed sadly. “I’m going to miss you, Magdalene.”

“It will not be too long,” Maggie replied. “We will manage in your absence, Monsieur Cormac, as we always do.”

Shay winced. “I really _don’t_ want to go, Madame.”

Maggie simply looked at him. “Of course you do, mon amour. I knew that when I fell in love with a sailor. Tu sors avec la marée et tu reviens sur le même.”

“Yes,” Shay said quietly, “we do.” He placed his arm about her shoulders and clung to her until the tide came in, the _Morrigan_ made anchor, and he set out for shore.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

The so-called Free State of Franklin was an odd place. It wasn’t all that long ago the ‘State’ was holding government business down the street from North Carolina. Now, the ‘State’ ran things from its own city.

_It isn’t actually doing all that badly_ , Shay conceded. The problem was the Free State was _not_ a State, as much as it might like to be. As such, it was a consistent thorn in the side of Federal Authority – mostly by proving such authority non-existent.

“We’re going to need to do something about this,” Shay noted.

Nathanial nodded, his lazy gaze taking in the rural land. “After we’ve fixed the government?”

“On the way, if we can.”

“If we’re lucky.” The frontiersman smirked, expectant.

Shay didn’t disappoint. “We make our own luck, Nathanial. You know that.”

“Our own smuggling rings, too,” Nathanial teased.

“How else are we to get Mentor Kenway down here?” Shay joked. “Convince him the weather is good for his health?”

“Far better than icy New York,” laughed the frontiersman.

The two men bantered as they rode across Franklin’s plains, heading toward the border with the Cherokee.

“You’re certain no one will suspect?” Shay asked again.

Nathanial grinned. “Yes, _Grandmaster._ I’m just looking for my son and having a very hard time finding him, too.”

Shay chuckled. “Is he even yours?”

“Who knows?” Nathanial smirked. “But if I find him, I’m claiming him.”

Shay laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. “I hate this,” he abruptly admitted. “I’ve been on my own for so long – not even a crew for most of it. Now I’ve an entire Rite to care for.”

“You’re doing fine,” Nathanial assured him. “You’ve got Connor off our backs-”

“And one mistake and he’ll kill us all!” Shay exclaimed.

“He won’t.” Nathanial said firmly. “You won’t let him.”

Shay sighed. “He _will_ find out Nathanial. And when he does…”

“We’ll be too far gone for him to stop us.” Nathanial paused, forcing Shay to look at him. “We all swore the same oaths, Shay. We all knew what we were agreeing to. If the Assassin kills us, so be it. At least we die for a good cause.”

Shay sighed, nudging his horse back into motion. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They rode on, Shay keenly aware of the passing time. He’d have to head to New York soon, or all this would be wasted. Connor wouldn’t stay long with his new wife and her clan. His people were still too angry – well, Brant was – for him to remain. If the Assassins noticed the angry populace under their noses…

Shay made a mental note to contact Sullivan again. Maybe they could push things forward along the Ohio. At least the British Rite was keeping the tariffs up. How _had_ Haytham managed all this? Shay didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Nathanial answered. “Delegation.”

“I delegate,” Shay insisted.

But for once Nathanial didn’t laugh or have a quick rejoinder. “Not really. You need to be on top of everything; do everything yourself. You shouldn’t even be _here_ , Shay. You should be on your way to New York to do a job only _you_ can do. You’ve been on your own so long, you’ve forgotten others can serve.”

“I…” The objection died unspoken. _Nathanial’s right_ , Shay realized. _I’m not on my own seeking a box, or hunting Assassins and traitors for the Inner Sanctum. I’m **Grandmaster** now, and it’s time I stopped trying to run from it!_ “I’ve been a damned fool, Nathanial.”

His fellow Templar laughed. “We all are once in a while, Shay.”

“Maybe,” the Grandmaster replied, “but I can’t afford to be. You know what to do?”

The frontiersman nodded. “Supply the tribes with Spanish weapons. Cause border incidents on both sides. Look for my son, but don’t actually find him. And make sure no one knows we’re behind it.”

“Good.” Shay clasped his best friend’s arms. “I’m off to New York then.” He hesitated. “You’re absolutely sure you can do this without me?”

“Yes, _Grand_ master Cormac.” Nathanial rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “Stop fussing like a mother hen. I’ll keep watch over these eggs, Shay, don’t you worry.”

Shay chuckled as he turned his horse, then paused, looking back. “Nathanial… _thank you_.”

“Anytime Shay,” the frontiersman said cheerfully. “What else are friends for?”

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

“Alors Monsieur, je vois que c’était une marée très courte.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Charles Cotesworth Pinckney: Early American Statesman
> 
> Edward Ruttledge: Youngest signer of the Declaration of Independence and Governor of South Carolina
> 
> Unprofitable: A LOT of the Founding Fathers thought slavery would become unprofitable. This... really did not happen.
> 
> Franklin/Frankland: A wanna-be State that never happened.
> 
> Chikamauga: A Cherokee band that ran by its own rules. Now considered an offshoot of the rest of the tribe.
> 
> Charles Pinckney: a delegate to the Constitutional Convention and Governor of South Carolina
> 
> Piercing ears: Sailors did this for multiple reasons. A good many were superstitious.
> 
> Daniel Sullivan: American Frontiersman
> 
> Ohio: the river, not the State, which didn't exist yet.


	14. 1785: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

It had been years since Shay had visited upstate New York. Early February saw the ground covered in feet of snow. Evergreens lay nestled beside their barren cousins in the woods covering most of the State.

Somewhere to the east lay the territory of Vermont. New York would like to say it was New York; Vermont was inclined to believe it was _Vermont_.

Shay would have to speak to Alexan – _no_ , he wouldn’t. A Rite was like a ship; the Captain didn’t need to tie every rope. Alexander could decide what to do with Vermont on his own; he didn’t need Shay holding his hand.

_Nathanial is right,_ Shay thought. _I need to trust people to do their jobs!_ Which was hard when Shay didn’t particularly trust their Grandmaster to do _his_.

Today, that meant distracting Assassins. And speaking of Assassins…

Shay leaped to the side, arm coming up to strike. The Assassin moved quickly though, his arm intersecting the blow. Shay followed up swiftly, leg striking out. The Assassin deflected, kicking out in turn. Shay moved aside, sending a rapid blow at his opponent’s ribs. The Assassin shifted, avoiding the greater force of the blow.

They continued to fight, kicks and blows tossed and deflected. Knees, elbows, headbutts, everything was allowed. Except weapons, of course. They weren’t trying to kill each other.

The differences in styles were increasingly evident as they fought. Shay was experienced, with all his wily tricks and guile, while Connor was all youthful ferocity, fire and explosiveness his opponent had rarely seen, much less willingly faced, before.

Shay grinned, and his opponent returned it. For a moment, this was Davenport and that was Liam, and Shay had never gone to Lisbon. But there was tan skin in place of fair, buckskins instead of robes, long black hair where short cropped red should be. The illusion broke and there was a tear in Shay’s eye; he didn’t know if it was grief, laughter, or just the Goddamned cold.

They stopped eventually, Shay falling to the ground, while Connor settled more sedately, both giddy with the euphoria which came of exertion. “I think,” Shay laughed breathlessly, “we’ve scared off all the animals.”

“Probably,” Connor admitted. “We should return; my _wife_ will be waiting.” Shay chuckled. “What?” The boy demanded.

“It’s the way you say it.” The Templar smiled fondly at his younger companion. “Like it’s not quite real.”

The Assassin actually blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

“That you’ve yet to break in your wedding moccasins?” Shay grinned. “Aye, lad, I’m afraid it is. Don’t worry; you’ll grow into them. Come on – we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

“That’s what I-” The boy began, but Shay was already moving. Connor muttered something rather impolite in his own tongue, chasing after the Templar.

Shay grinned. He probably _shouldn’t_ tease the Assassin Mentor, but it was just too easy. He also should probably stop thinking of the boy as, well, a _boy_ , but Connor _was_ one. Not that age was any measure – La Fayette was even younger and look at what _he’d_ accomplished. Shay had a tremendous amount of respect for George’s protegee.

_I’ll have to ask Thomas to keep the boy safe when we overthrow the monarchy,_ Shay decided. He _was_ an American, after all, and they were quite fond of their fighting Frenchman. Shay was rather fond of the Assassin one too, come to think of it.

Shay glanced up at the rising moon, a thought occurring to him. “Selene,” he proclaimed abruptly. Connor looked at him, awaiting an explanation. “It’s an old name for the moon,” Shay said. “I think it fits your wife.”

Connor shrugged. “You are free to ask. Maybe she’ll even like it.” She hadn’t liked any of Shay’s previous suggestions.

“It’s just a matter of finding the right one,” Shay replied cheerfully. “Or of wearing her down. She can’t possibly enjoy me tripping over her name _that_ much.”

“She thinks it’s funny,” Connor said, his eyes gleaming in that fond way only a newlywed’s could. He really was a boy; so hopeful and idealistic. It made Shay feel terribly guilty, knowing what he planned to do.

_Will he still believe,_ Shay wondered, _when he learns this was all a lie?_ “Remind me,” the Templar said lightly, “how you met again?”

Connor shot him an irritated look. “I already told you – and you already knew.”

“I’m an old man,” Shay said cheerfully. “We forget things.”

“You’re fifty-three,” Connor pointed out.

“Something I’d completely forgotten until you reminded me.”

Connor laughed, despite his clear attempt to avoid doing so. _Good,_ Shay thought. _He’s too stoic._ What was it with the Kenways and their aversion to laughter?

“Fine.” The boy smiled, adding, “ _old_ _man_.” His eyes went distant, reminiscing. He really was a newlywed. “I was visiting some tribes here to discuss some matters.”

_Trying to mend things with your people_ , Shay filled in. He doubted Connor had had much success – marriage aside, obviously. Joseph Brant led the Haudenosaunee right now, and he had no love for the Assassin. _Do you even know why he hates you?_ Shay wondered, as Connor continued.

“I heard screaming and followed the sound to the river. She had fallen in, and I helped her out.”

“ _That,”_ said Shay in a schooling tone, “is the least romantic way of saying it. You leapt into a frozen river to rescue a fair stranger. You nearly drowned yourself, diving under the ice to retrieve her.” A small, guilty part of the Templar wished the boy _had_ drowned. “But you rallied. You grabbed your axe, cutting through the icy sheets and bore the fair maid to shore. Seeing her still, you breathed life back into her. Awakening, awed by her savior, she gave you her heart and you – just as struck – accepted.”

“That is _not_ what happened,” Connor ground out.

“That’s what my girls think happened,” Shay laughed. “Angelique thinks it’s horribly romantic. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wear full plate if you come by – they seem to think you’re some sort of knight, and I wouldn’t want them disappointed.”

Connor sighed. “You think so little of your own tale that you must use mine?”

Shay frowned slightly. “You _do_ know how I met Maggie?”

Connor shook his head. “You have not told me.”

“Ah.” Shay thought back, sorting through what he could and could not tell the Assassin. “Well, your Da would lend me out to the other Rites.” More like Shay would help in exchange for information on the Box. “Not too many Assassin-trained Templars.” Connor nodded. “Maggie was my handler on a mission. She pretended to be a prostitute so we could meet secretly.” She’d been thirteen and Shay a thirty-two-year-old widower. It had been extraordinarily awkward.

The Assassin frowned. “What sort of mission?” The boy was probing again, but Shay had no intention of giving him this one.

The Templar shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t even recall.” A lie; Shay had been destroying the Portuguese Brotherhood. Not that the boy would ever know; there was no one left to reveal it. “I just remember how _embarrassing_ the whole thing was.”

“But you fell in love,” Connor said smugly.

“Not _then_.” Shay looked out at the snowy forest. He could smell smoke in the air; they’d be at the village soon. “She contacted me with information years later. We worked together on and off until a mission went wrong.” Julie de la Serre had tipped off the French Brotherhood and Shay had barely escaped. He'd sworn he'd kill the traitor responsible. Six years later - now the Inquisitor - he _had_ , on his first mission for the Inner Sanctum. “We escaped and hid out as husband and wife for a bit. After, Maggie suggested we make it official-” - _because she’d been expecting_ , Shay recalled, _though our Jean-Alexandre did not survive the_ _year._ “-and I accepted.” He smiled fondly. “I was twice her age; I’ll never understand why she wanted me.”

“She loves you,” Connor replied as the longhouses came into view.

“Aye,” Shay agreed. “And I’ve no idea why.”

“I have the same question for █████” the boy confessed, speaking his wife’s name, something Shay hadn’t the slightest hope of pronouncing. It meant ‘She dances with life in joy’, a name which suited the girl well. Shay could _understand_ the Iroquoian tongues well enough – it was speaking that was the problem.

“Selene,” he said firmly.

Connor smiled. “If she agrees.” He moved toward his wife, who had come out to greet them. She was a pretty thing, with her wide dark eyes and hair all in a braid shiny with bear’s wax. Tiny too, especially next to the Assassin. She wore a necklace Connor had given her, one of his courting gifts.

Shay watched them embrace, speaking quietly in their own tongue, ignorant of the world about them as only the young and in love could be. He suddenly missed Maggie terribly. But she was in South Carolina, coordinating with the Pinckney’s and recovering from the birth. If all went as planned, he wouldn’t see her for months.

Sighing, he followed Connor and his wife at a distance, giving the couple their space. The two would not know such peace long, Shay knew. His letter to Grandmaster Brant would ensure that.

* * *

The next day saw the two men hunting again. “A deer came this way,” Connor stated.

Shay looked thoughtfully at the seemingly undisturbed ground. “How do you do that?”

“How do you see through walls?” The boy countered.

Shay smiled. “If I teach you, will you teach me?”

The Assassin frowned. “ _Can_ it be taught?”

“If one has the ability, yes,” Shay answered. “There are many types of Eagle Vision, all variants of the same gift. If you have one, you can – in theory – learn the others.”

“In theory,” Connor repeated. “Not always?”

“It depends on the strength of the Gift.” Shay frowned, thinking. “I doubt I could teach you to _listen_ – I’ve never known another who could.”

“Listen?” Connor asked.

Shay waved a hand distractedly. “It’s not important.” More something he should never have brought up. _At least I didn’t mention Brigid,_ he thought ruefully. _That_ was a secret he could not risk the Assassins knowing. “I couldn’t even describe it, let alone teach it. Marking though… I could teach you that.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve taught it before.”

_I **have**_ _to stop thinking of him as a child_ , Shay thought irritably. _He’s too insightful to underestimate._ It was surprisingly hard to do. “Yes,” he admitted. “And I’ve had it taught to me.”

“And you would teach me?” Connor asked, his disbelief evident.

_Still red then_ , Shay noted. Not especially surprising, given the Templar’s intentions. Annoying though. “I will,” Shay confirmed, “if you teach me to see these.” He motioned at the ground where Connor claimed the deer had passed.

The Assassin frowned. “I do not know how,” he confessed.

Shay rubbed his left ring finger, thinking. “How was it explained to you?”

“The Oia’ner said I see _echoes_ ,” he began, “places where the spirit had passed.”

Shay nodded, thinking. “You see where people have gone.” Hadn’t one of the old Assassins had a gift like that?

Connor shook his head. “I see where they left a _mark_.”

Shay frowned, activating his Eagle Vision. The world turned grey. Connor glowed a pale blue, as did Shay himself. An ally, at least for now.

The Templar looked at the ground. Nothing was there, of course. “Tell me more.”

“I can see the marks of her passage.”

“Her?” Shay interrupted.

Connor nodded. “There was a fawn. I can see the smaller marks amongst the mother’s.”

Shay nodded. “What else?”

“There is a snapped branch. It glows to my sight; she must have broken it.” Shay looked at the indicated spot. He could see the broken branch, but there was no glow showing its importance. “There are leaves that have been eaten from.” Again, Shay could see the physical damage, but only with his ordinary eyes.

“Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way,” he mused. _Or maybe I need someone who knows what they’re doing._ At least he could be fairly certain Connor wasn’t going to be teaching others these skills any time soon.

Shay looked up to the faraway speck he knew intrinsically was Brigid. His stomach turned as the world _flipped_. The trees were suddenly below him. He could see himself kneeling beside Connor. The world wheeled dizzyingly as he banked, then rose on a current of warm air.

Somewhere, he could sense Brigid’s mind riding alongside his own. _She_ was the one flying, though Shay felt as if he were. _We need to find the deer_ , he thought. As one they dived, wings drawn tight to their sides. It was heady feeling, which a Leap of Faith could only try to claim. They spread their wings, catching themselves just above the tree line _. I could fly with her for eternity,_ Shay thought. It was a frightening idea.

Eagle eyes were sharp, capturing details human eyes never could. It was easy for Brigid to find the deer, and for Shay to mark the doe through the eagle. To mark her in his _own_ sight was trickier, but he could do so. The world shifted to grey and the deer glowed golden. Brigid shrieked her protest, disliking the change. _Sorry, girl_ , Shay apologized as he reluctantly withdrew.

He returned to himself, his sense of the eagle fading. Brigid did _not_ enjoy sharing his Gift; he would owe her a treat for that. Eagle Vision really was a misnomer. It had been worthwhile though; Shay could see the glowing doe through the trees, grazing by the Mohawk river. Now, if he could just trace that back, see where she had walked…

A sharp pain pulsed through his mind and he gasped, awestruck.

“You have it?” Connor asked.

“No,” Shay murmured. “Not yet.” This wasn’t what Connor had described, no. It was something else entirely, but no less wondrous for that. It was what Shay had thought at first, before Connor explained. _Ezio_ , the Templar remembered. _He had this._

Shay could see where the doe had walked, a golden thread trailing before and behind him. He could see echoes of her form twisting through the trees. And he could see where she had stepped; where her footprints _should_ be, had the new fallen powder not hidden them.

He felt something fall into place inside him, some strange gap being bridged. _It’s all one,_ he thought, amazed as he saw the tracks for the first time. **_It’s all one_** _._

Distantly, he could hear Connor shouting. It was like a dream, not quite real, not like this world of light and shadow, where all things were and weren’t at once.

A sharp, stinging pain brought him back to reality. “What?!” He tried to ask, only to choke. He fell forward, coughing, blood pouring from his mouth. Hands caught him, sharp blows to the back clearing his throat. Another moment passed before Shay could breathe again. “Thank you,” he said shakily, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep.

Connor lifted a handful of snow. “Your nose.”

It was bleeding, Shay realized. He pressed the cold mass to the offending organ. It turned crimson almost instantly.

“Your ears are bleeding too,” Connor said. He sounded concerned. “And your eyes, at the corners.”

Shay nodded. “I’ve had nosebleeds before, when I pushed, but…” He hesitated. “May I teach you tomorrow? It… I suspect it would be best if I didn’t use my Vision again today.”

Connor nodded. “I would not have let you.” He paused. “I did not know it could do that.”

“Nor I,” Shay admitted. “I’m… It’s never been so bad, before.”

“Before?” Connor frowned. “This has happened before?”

Shay hesitated, then sighed. He’d blame it on the blood loss, but… Connor had likely just saved his life. He _owed_ the Assassin something, even if only a little honesty.

Maybe it was the blood loss.

“When… After I left the Assassins, they started hunting me. I… I needed to be able to defend myself.” Shay set the bloody snow aside, lifting another ball with his _left_ hand. His left: the hand that bore Monro’s ring _and_ the Assassins’ brand. “I thought… If my Vision can tell me who an enemy _is_ and where they _go_ , maybe it could tell me _before_ I saw them?”

“It could.” Connor said.

Shay smiled faintly. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? Never had such a bad nosebleed – not until today. And I had terrible headaches for months after. But it worked. I survived the attacks, until there was no one left _to_ attack.”

Connor gazed thoughtfully at him. “You are not going to teach me _that_.” A statement, not a question.

Shay answered anyway. “I couldn’t. I tried once and… it didn’t work. I think you need to be able to _listen_ and I can’t teach that either. I’m not entirely certain how I do it, even.”

Connor leaned back, eyes narrowed. “But if you could, still… you would not.”

“No,” Shay admitted. “I wouldn’t.”

Nothing had changed, but somehow the wood felt far colder than it had just a moment before.

* * *

The next day saw Shay and Connor walking through a light snowfall.

“When you use your Vision,” Shay began, “you see me.” Connor nodded. “Do it then.”

“You’re red again,” Connor said. He sounded disappointed.

“I’m always red to you,” Shay pointed out.

“Not yesterday,” the boy said quietly, “after I saved you.”

“Oh.” Well, _that_ was unexpected. “You see me, anyway.” Connor nodded again. “Good.” Shay frowned, trying to remember. How _had_ he taught George Monro? Of all his children, Conlan’s twin had the strongest Gift. “Fix me in your mind and focus on that.” Connor’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “And release your Vision.”

The boy shot him a startled look. “Release it?”

Shay nodded. “You should be able to _see_ me, even without your Vision active.”

The boy frowned as Shay moved behind a tree. “I cannot see you now.”

The Templar shrugged. “Then we try until you can.”

It was nearly noon, and the snow had stopped, when Connor suddenly smiled. “I _see_ you.”

“About time,” said Shay, walking back toward the boy. “Do you want snow?”

Connor wiped away the trickle of blood. “It is not bad. Not like yours.”

Shay nodded. “Makes sense.” At Connor’s questioning look, he continued. “Marking is just an extension of seeing intent. That’s how it feels, at least.”

The boy looked thoughtful. “Yes… that is a good description.”

Shay nodded. “What you do… it’s very different. It’s connected to objects of importance, I think. I didn’t realize that until after, though. I tried to go about it from the wrong direction, which is why it hit me so bad.” Shay had had a lot of time to think about it, after his nose started bleeding again around midnight and wouldn’t stop for hours. Selene – she had accepted the name – had been remarkably sweet about the whole thing. _I wonder if she’s mentioned her midnight illness to Connor yet?_ “I’m older too; it makes a difference.”

Connor smirked. “Old man,” he teased.

Shay shot him a mock-scowl. “Not that old, _boy_.”

“Old enough to be my father,” came the smug reply.

Shay froze. Well, damn. He was, wasn’t he? “Don’t _remind_ me,” he said mournfully. _I need to leave,_ the Grandmaster realized. It was too easy to forget this Assassin was not a child – not _his_ child.

It was too easy to _let_ him be.

AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C

Nathanial’s letter arrived that evening, tied to Brigid’s leg.

_Shay,_

_My search took a bit of a detour, I’m afraid, and I may have gotten in over my head. Looks like the Spanish are behind some of the troubles here in Franklin. If you have some time, think you might be able to lend an old friend a hand?_

**_Nathanial Gist_ **

“Looks like I’m going to be headed south,” Shay announced, handing the letter to Connor.

The boy read it, frowning. “Would you like some help?”

_She hasn’t told him. Good._ Shay shook his head. “You have a wife now; you should stay with her.”

Connor gazed pensively at the fire. “I think it may be best if I left anyway.”

“Oh?” Shay asked, feigning confusion.

The boy nodded. “The warchief, Thayendanegea… he dislikes me.”

“I know,” Shay said.

Connor shot him a sharp look. “You know?”

Shay snorted. “I doubt there’s anyone in the Six Nations who _doesn’t_ know.”

The boy’s shoulders suddenly slumped. “Yes. He has made his opinion of me clear. He is not pleased with my in-laws for allowing the marriage. It is done, and such things are not undone, but I fear he will cause them – and her – much grief if I remain.”

“Ah.” Shay said, inwardly pleased. “Well, if you need to be elsewhere for a bit, I welcome the help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Vermont: An independent State, separate from the Union due to the issue of New York claiming the territory. Obviously, this got resolved, as Vermont became the fourteenth State.
> 
> Selene: Connor's real wife. Our records don't have much on her. (As opposed to the woman we claim was his wife.)
> 
> La Fayette: Young French noble who fought for the Patriots' cause. His reputation in his own country is not nearly as straightforward. The US still loves him dearly.
> 
> Francois-Thomas Germaine: At the time he had been exiled from the French Rite and was believed dead by most. He would later become Grandmaster of the French Rite and start the Revolution there. 
> 
> Julie de la Serre: Wife of Grandmaster de la Serre. Nothing in our records indicate her death was anything but natural. I want to know how Cormac did it.
> 
> Six Nations: The Haudenosaunee


	15. 1785: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

Shay slid his dagger through the gaps in the Native’s spine, a hand clasped firmly over his victim’s mouth to stifle any screams. Not that it was really necessary – Connor was making enough noise for both of them. _Which one of us is the Assassin, again?_ Shay thought with amusement. Still, old habits died hard, and it paid to be cautious.

Shay clambered onto a nearby branch, partially hidden from the fray. He brought his air rifle to bear, sending a berserk grenade among some nearby Braves. _Take yourselves out for me_ , he thought with satisfaction as they turned on one another.

Nathanial had done his job well. A few ‘incidents’ along the border had set the Natives and settlers at war – exactly as the Grandmaster had planned. When Congress failed to put an end to the matter, as Shay knew they would, the need for a stronger, more centralized government would become clear to the States. _If you can trust Congress to do anything_ , the Grandmaster thought smugly, _it’s to not do anything at all._

Matters along the Mississippi and Ohio rivers would also serve as an excellent distraction for the Assassins. If Massachusetts was to fall in line, the Assassins could not be involved. Not until it was too late to matter.

Shay _was_ counting on them to ensure things didn’t get _too_ out of hand. The Assassins could be useful tools, when properly directed. _I should know_ , he thought bitterly. _I was one._

He leaped from the tree, crushing an unwary brave. The Hidden Blade stabbed up through the neck, into the atlas, severing the brainstem. The warrior fell instantly. A second rushed the Templar, only for Shay’s pistol to leave a gaping, bloody hole where his chest had been. Shay slid back into the shadows, calmly reloading his weapon as he searched for further victims. It wasn't his usual pistol, unfortunately, but he couldn't risk _those_ near Connor.

He raised a brow as Connor messily beheaded another warrior. So much for ‘hide in plain sight’. Shay was a better Assassin as a _Templar_ than he’d ever been when he wore the hood. Casually reaching out, he slit the throat of another brave, avoiding the blood spray with the ease of practice. He walked off, leaving the dead man behind.

The battle was winding down now, the Native warriors retreating. The settlers began to cheer, some forming a quick posse to harry their assailants. Others were coming to thank their ‘rescuers.’ _What would they think_ , Shay thought dryly, _if they knew that we had defended these very warriors from **them** yesterday?_ It was the story of these Western territories, but it served the Templar well.

Shay walked over to Connor. The Assassin stood in the middle of the haphazard ‘town.’ It scarcely deserved the name; just a collection of rude buildings, really. A general store and tavern dominated the street. Most of the people here were farmers, living some ways from the town. It served more as a gathering place than one to live in.

The settlers were intent on defending it all the same.

“You should be happy,” Shay told Connor. “We helped these people today.”

“Yes,” Connor said glumly. “And tomorrow we will fight _them_ , when they retaliate for _this._ ”

Shay nodded. “That’s the problem with wars like these, lad. One side has to lose.”

  
“But why do they _have_ to fight?” Connor demanded. “Can they truly not dwell in peace?”

“Why does anyone fight?” Shay asked rhetorically. “Property, power, prestige, usually. When you come right down to it, most wars are for one of those things – even ours.”

“We fight to bring peace,” the boy stated firmly.

“Do we?” Shay wondered. “Or are we just trying to ensure the other side fails?”

“ _We_ are not fighting,” Connor pointed out.

_Oh, lad,_ Shay thought sadly. _If only you knew._ “I’m still red to your sight,” he said instead. “What does that tell you?”

“Not always,” Connor said quietly.

Shay frowned. “What?”

“You are not always red.”

“I…see.” No he didn’t. Shay was lying to the boy, playing him, leading Connor on with hopes of peace while the Grandmaster readied his Blade to strike. _I **like** him though,_ Shay grudgingly admitted. _I don’t **want** to hurt him._ Maybe that was the difference. Shay would do what was right – he always did. But that didn’t mean he would _enjoy_ it.

_This was a lot easier when I didn’t **care**_ , he conceded. But care he did, and Shay could not find it in himself to regret it. “We should get going,” he said momentarily. “We still need to find Nathanial.”

AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C

The next few days were spent traversing the southern borders of Franklin, fighting numerous, repetitive skirmishes between Natives and settlers.

“The Confederation holds they won that land when they won the war,” Shay explained one evening. “The Brits ceded it to them.” Jay had done good work there.

“The Nations were not part of that treaty,” Connor argued. “it is not right that they should be bound by it.”

“Agreed,” Shay said. “But the Americans won the war and the Tribes were allies of the British. Britain _should_ have protected their interests, but they chose not to. The US has a right to the lands it won just as much as the Native people have a right to renounce a treaty they had no part in.”

“The British do not treat their allies well,” Connor said.

“No,” Shay agreed. “And Congress’ inability to formulate a proper policy – or to enforce any they _do_ – doesn’t help.”

“The Nations are going to be forced out of this land, aren’t they?” Connor’s voice was soft and sad.

“I hope not.” Shay lay his hand comfortingly on the boy’s arm. To his surprise, he found he meant both the gesture and the words. “I think this Nation will be a lot poorer without them.”

“Perhaps,” Connor said. “But I do not see how to stop it.”

Shay squeezed the boy’s shoulder, but could think of no words to console him. _When we take this land_ , he vowed, _we’ll find a way. Treaties we can actually **enforce**._ Yet still, he feared Connor was right. The thought kept him up long after the fire had died down.

AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C

They found Nathanial in a Cherokee village near the Little Tennessee river. "There used to be a town here,” the frontiersman explained. “Tuskugee. Sequoya was born there. It’s gone now, and no one seems to know where Wut-teh moved to.”

“I’m sorry,” Shay said. “I know you were hoping to meet him.” He was surprised Nathanial had gotten so close, in all honesty. The man wasn’t supposed to _find_ the boy – not until everything else was in place, at least.

Nathanial shrugged. “I’ll keep looking. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually. That’s not why I sent you the letter, though.”

Connor nodded, finally speaking up. Shay was surprised he’d waited so long. “You spoke of trouble with the Spanish?”

Nathanial nodded. “They’ve signed a treaty with the Cherokee, supplying them with weapons.”

“They’re trying to turn the Nation against itself,” Shay theorized, “to prevent a western expansion. That’s why they shut the Mississippi.” The Templars hadn’t been behind _that_ , but it served their interests well.

Connor frowned. “If so, they are succeeding.” The boy was right, although the Templars were certainly encouraging the process. To build a new ship, sometimes you had to scrap the old.

Nathanial nodded. “I thought I might do something about it – while I’m here anyway – but it’ll be easier with help.”

Shay smiled. “You have a plan?”

The frontiersman grinned sheepishly. “Not… exactly?”

“Nathanial…” Shay groaned.

“What _do_ you have?” Connor demanded.

“There’s a supply depot a little ways out. I thought we could set it alight, then move backwards to find the source. I know the ammunition is coming from Georgia, but not how or who.”

“That is a plan,” Connor noted.

“Oh, no, that part I’ve got,” Nathanial said cheerfully. “The outline is wonderful. It’s the details I’m fuzzy on.”

Shay rubbed his brand, thinking. “I can scout it out; see where the guards are. We should be able to attack tonight, if all goes well.”

“I’d tell you good luck,” Nathanial laughed, “but I know what you’d say.”

“What?” Connor asked curiously. “What _would_ you say?”

Shay smirked as Nathanial groaned. “I make my own luck, Connor.”

AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C

“There are patrols here and here,” Shay said when he returned late in the day. He marked the routes on the rough map Nathanial had drawn up.

Connor looked at Shay with some admiration. “You are remarkably observant,” he noted.

Shay shrugged. He hadn’t _personally_ scouted the place; Brigid had done that for him. He’d just borrowed the Eagle’s eyes. “I have experience.”

“Yes,” the Assassin said thoughtfully. “I can see.”

“Not if we wait much longer,” Nathanial joked, breaking the awkward moment.

Shay chuckled. “True. They’ll change patrols at sundown, so that’s when we should strike.”

“We should leave now, then,” Connor said firmly. “Can you freerun?” He asked Nathanial.

The frontiersman shook his hand slightly, moving it from side-to-side. “Eh, if I _have_ to. But I’m sticking to the ground.”

Connor and Shay took to the trees, leaping over Nathanial’s head. “Will your Assassins be backing us up?” Shay asked abruptly.

Connor faltered almost imperceptibly. “What do you mean?”

Shay smirked. “I’m sorry, lad. Was I not supposed to notice them? Let’s just forget I did then.”

The young mentor sighed. “Nathanial’s letter was unclear. I thought it best we had help.”

Shay raised a brow. Did the boy _really_ think that was going to work? “Help you didn’t bother to mention?”

Connor’s eyes went hard. “I have chosen to ally with you, despite what my Vision has told me. That does _not_ mean I will follow you into an unknown without precautions.”

_Smart boy,_ Shay thought. _And you’re right, this **is** a trap. Just not the one you think._ “Am I complaining?” the Templar said aloud. “I’d do the same; I _have_ done the same.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “When.”

Shay smiled coldly. “Let’s just say, _Mentor_ Kenway, that my Hunters blend better than your Assassins.”

“Hunters?” The boy questioned.

“Aye.” Shay smirked, running on in silence. Let the boy gnaw on that. The Grandmaster had no worries in _that_ regard. George Monro led the Hunters and Shay had every faith in his son. _My heir,_ he thought, _even_ _more so than Conlan._ The elder twin had been a sickly child; his survival was a true, and unexpected, gift. In contrast, George Monro had thrived, learning to blend and kill while his twin lay in his sickbed. Shay trusted no one more.

_I’ll see him soon_ , Shay thought, barely suppressing a wince. He was not looking forward to it.

They infiltrated the encampment with little difficulty, dodging the patrols with ease. “I’ll get the information,” Shay said quietly, raising his mask. “Leave the explosions to those who enjoy them.” Nathanial grinned broadly.

Connor’s mouth went thin. “I will take the eastern cache. Gist-”

“I’ll get the west,” the man finished, still looking remarkably pleased at getting the chance to destroy things. “Going to be _quite_ the explosion.”

Shay shot him an indulgent glance. “Not _too_ big, Nathanial. We aren’t trying to bring down the whole of Appalachia.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” laughed Nathanial. “Only down _some_ of Appalachia.”

Chuckling, Shay clambered up the nearby building. He maneuvered the rooftops with ease, using them to traverse the depot. He paused as he neared his target, waiting. _Soon._ Unconsciously, he rubbed his brand, an old habit he’d never quite outgrown. _Soon._

The explosion to the east shook the building. An even larger one followed from the west. Shay moved, hands automatically lifting a hood he didn’t wear, another old habit he’d never quite lost. Below, the Spaniards raced about in confusion. Shay tossed a berserk grenade, the resultant gunfire covering the sound of shattering glass as he smashed through the window of the commander’s office.

The Grandmaster walked over to the desk, forcing himself to relax. He lifted a handful of dispatches, eyes scanning over the dates and locations. His hands were steady, he noted with satisfaction, despite his racing heart. Anticipation was always the worst.

A gunshot rang out, made all the louder by the enclosed room. Shay cried out hoarsely, fire blazing under his arm and across his side. He fell forward, gasping, trying to catch himself against the desk. Rough hands caught him, facing him forward. A still-smoking pistol was shoved into his hands. With his last strength, Shay looked up into the face of his attacker – and smiled.

The face was his own.


	16. 1785:Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

It was a series of fortuitous coincidences which had the Grandmaster of the American Rite exactly where he wished to be.

First: He had been shot. The bullet had gone through Shay’s serratus, cracking his ribs and leaving a nice hole in the muscle. It was hardly a fatal injury, but damaging enough – especially on a man no longer young – to remove the Grandmaster from the field.

Second: A sudden outbreak of violence had forced Connor to remain in the Free State. The Assassin hadn’t been very happy; he was startlingly concerned over his enemy’s injury.

Third: Nathanial Gist received information regarding his elusive son’s whereabouts. This had him heading deep into Cherokee territory. Hopefully, he’d be able to set their plans there into motion, preferably _without_ Connor learning of it.

Fourth: Conlan and Christopher, Shay’s sons, had been scouting in the area. The dutiful children they were, they’d been perfectly happy to abandon their expedition in favor of escorting their wounded father to safety, freeing Connor and Nathanial to fulfil their obligations in Franklin.

Fifth: They had been on the Virginia border. Mt. Vernon wasn’t the closest refuge, even from there, but it was the first place Shay, delirious with blood loss, could think of. He trusted George and Martha implicitly and knew he would be safe recovering there. By complete coincidence, Mt. Vernon was very close to the city of Alexandria, where a certain Potomac River delegation intended to meet.

_Someday, Haytham,_ Shay thought smugly, as he looked out at the Virginia plantation, _your boy will learn I make my own luck._ He chuckled, then winced. “Traitorous lad. You couldn’t have gone for a graze?”

“You said to make it look real, Da,” replied the Grandmaster’s younger self. “I did.” Well, not quite Shay’s younger self. George Monro Cormac lacked the scar by his father’s eye, but he was otherwise the Grandmaster’s spitting image – albeit twenty-odd years younger.

Some of it was even intentional. George Monro wore his ring on his left hand, which had been branded with the Assassins’ mark. His ears were pierced, like his father’s. His hair was cut to the same length as Shay’s and he’d been trained to mirror his father’s mannerisms and habits. The rest was entirely natural, and it served them well. A little powder, some clay, a few cosmetics, and George Monro could take Shay’s place. He had, more than once.

“You were careful?” Shay asked now.

“Of course,” the Hunter scoffed. “I’ve marked the Assassins, but they never saw me.”

“Good,” the Grandmaster replied. “Keep it that way. Your anonymity is our greatest weapon.”

The younger man nodded. “Of course.” Then, “You _are_ alright, Da?”

“I’ve been better,” Shay admitted. “Not as young as I was, either. But I’ve had worse.” The old scar on his back – courtesy of Chevalier – twinged.

“If you need me –”

“No.” Shay stopped him. “I can delay one delegation. I’m older, not incompetent. I need you to be _me_ in Massachusetts. Our rebels need watching, and we’ll never be more free than now, when Connor _knows_ I can’t be there.”

George Monro frowned. “You're certain, Da?”

“Yes.” Shay paused, thinking. “I’ll need you to contact Hamilton and Jay on your way up north. There are things they need to know, and I can’t risk a letter. I’m certain Connor has his Assassins intercepting them.” His son nodded, acknowledging the orders. “I’d also like an update on Knox.”

“Slow,” the Hunter admitted. “I’m fairly certain he’ll be an ally, but I’m not ready to reveal the whole to him. I doubt he’ll join, even once I do.”

“That’s fine,” Shay said, sitting gingerly. “An ally is perfectly acceptable. If you don’t think he needs to know, don’t tell him. We never told Cook, and he served us well despite that. Use your discretion; you know I trust you.”

“I do,” George Monro confirmed. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“Do so. Morris?”

“Mourning Salomon,” came the reply. “Haym was young; I think Morris is in shock. We may want to hold off on telling him.”

Shay nodded. It _had_ been a shame to send the Hunters after Salomon; Haym was a good man. He had worked with Morris to finance the American Revolution. Their friendship – one of the rare ones occasionally found between Assassins and Templars – had been strong enough to protect the other from their individual Orders… for a time.

Unfortunately, even with Salomon’s fortune severely depleted, Haym’s mind for financials – and his vast array of contacts – made him a threat. Given time, the man would have been able to rebuild his fortune and, more importantly, bolster the fledgling Nation’s credit. That, Shay could not allow. The Confederation had to fall, so as to make way for a more perfect union.

_Christopher did well,_ Shay thought proudly. _I was right to send him_. The boy might not be as skilled as his older brother, but he was quite capable in his own right. Careful and methodical, Christopher had grown into a fine Hunter. Salomon’s death had not only appeared natural – the Assassins believed it to be. Their continued alliance was proof of that.

Morris had been fooled too, it seemed. The Grandmaster would tell him the truth… eventually. For now, “Will he serve?”

George Monro nodded. “Given time, yes.”

“And Sullivan?”

“Expects things to erupt by next year.” The same time as Massachusetts. Good.

“Good,” Shay repeated out loud. “Then the pieces are all in place.”

“Assuming you can get Washington, yes,” his Hunter agreed, readying to depart.

“I’ve missed you, lad,” Shay admitted quietly, not quite ready to see the boy go.

His son hugged him – careful of Shay’s still raw side. “We’ll catch up on the way to France, Da.”

Shay chuckled, wincing. “So sure he’s going to throw me out?”

“When he finds out what we’ve done?” George Monro smirked. “We’ll be fleeing for our lives.”

Shay laughed, then gasped, pain flaring up his side. “Right. Well, he doesn’t know yet. Let’s keep it that way for as long as possible.” Preferably for another year or so. Past then, and the Assassins would be too late.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

It had been a near thing, but the timing had worked out. Shay had had just shy of two weeks to recover from his injuries. He could wish he were twenty years younger, but there was nothing to be done for that. He still healed faster than most, and that was blessing enough.

The Potomac River Conference was to occur in just a few days. Patrick Henry, Virginia’s governor, had finally gotten around to sending the commissioners their notifications. _Randolph deserves a commendation,_ Shay decided, _delaying Henry for so long._ The Order could do with another Master Templar.

It was still too soon though. Washington had to be involved if the man was ever to be convinced his country needed him. Shay scowled. _Something_ had happened between Connor and Washington that had the man fearful of power. It wasn’t a _bad_ thing per se, but it was incredibly inconvenient.

Delaying the Virginians would push George into taking a more active role, if only so the conference didn’t fall apart before it began. Randolph was responsible for preventing Madison from joining, which left Henderson and Mason – the other commissioners – to Shay. _We need more Templars in Virginia,_ Shay decided.

He looked out the window, scanning the grounds with his Eagle Vision. There were surprisingly few spies; either Connor thought Shay’s injury had actually incapacitated him, or the boy had started to trust the Templar. A mistake, regardless.

The Grandmaster waited for an unguarded moment, then shimmied down the wall. He hid among some bushes, ignoring the pain in his side. So long as the wound didn’t open, he’d be fine. Moving quickly, he snuck from bushes to shadows and back. Seeing a group of gardeners, he waited for them to pass, then blended among them. Walking casually, he waited for an opportune moment.

A disguised Assassin looked away, and in a heartbeat Shay was over the garden wall and onto the road. Smiling through the pain, he caught the edge of a passing wagon and launched himself into the bed. Crouching unnoticed behind the driver, he reached out to Brigid. As much as Shay hated riding – especially when injured – he’d need a horse.

The Eagle’s eyes scanned the beautiful Virginia landscape, taking in details human eyes never could. It never ceased to amaze Shay how far they could see together. The world stretched out below them like God’s own patchwork quilt. Brigid’s gaze fell on a stable; together they screeched their triumph. Releasing his mind from his partner’s, the Grandmaster returned to himself. For a moment he felt awkward and heavy, so different from the weightlessness of flight.

Still unnoticed, Shay slipped off the wagon, wincing as he rolled across the ground. His side burned, reminding him to be careful. _I need plans that **don’t** involve being shot,_ he thought ruefully.

Shay freeran to the stable, enjoying the cool evening air. Spring was beginning, here in Virginia. It would still be cold up north. He scanned the grounds with his Eagle Vision, just in case. The owners were in their home, eating dinner. There was no one watching to see the Templar ‘borrow’ one of their horses.

“I hate riding,” Shay muttered, as he saddled a likely steed. Give him a ship any day. “You won’t throw me, right?” The gelding whickered softly, and Shay offered him some sugar he’d saved from tea. The Grandmaster dropped a bag of coin as he left the stable. Shay intended to return the horse, but there was never any guarantee. Besides, the family deserved compensation for the loss, however temporary.

He scanned the grounds once more. Satisfied, Shay dug his heels deep into the gelding’s sides. Together they galloped down the road, miles swallowed beneath the flashing hooves. Shay might not have _liked_ horses, but he did _know_ them. He certainly owned enough of them.

The Grandmaster reached the first intercept point by the next afternoon. George Monro had prepared some supplies before heading to Richmond. Shay made a note to thank him for remembering. The boy would scoff, but Shay knew his son would be glad of the appreciation.

The Grandmaster offered the horse some fodder, before heading out to find something for himself. He activated his Eagle Vision, small footprints appearing before him. Connor’s trick was useful, though less so than it might once have been. To Shay, anyway. George Monro had caught the knack quickly enough and Christopher had followed. The Assassin’s trick would be of great use to the Hunters, if not their Grandmaster.

Shay climbed a nearby tree, more awkwardly than he might have uninjured. He hated the reminder that he wasn’t young anymore; years ago he’d have thrown off such a wound in days. As it was, it would likely take months before his arm could extend properly. If it kept the Assassins in the dark however, it would be well worth while.

He followed the glowing tracks with his eyes, quickly finding the hare to which they belonged. A throwing knife ended the small creature’s life. Automatically, he offered his thanks as he was taught long ago – first by Kesegowaase, and later by the Oneida and Seneca.

Shay ate his dinner in silence. It was nice, being on his own again, even for a short while. He’d spent years like this, living off the land and tracking targets. After the murder of Ruth, his first wife, Haytham had offered Shay the chance to settle down. He’d refused, choosing to leave his children with Ruth’s sister, Dancing Brook, and her husband, Charles Lee. Ironically, with Charles’ death, the raising of the Lee twins had fallen to Shay. _They’re amazing Charles,_ the Grandmaster thought sadly. _You’d be so proud. I hope I’ve done well by them for you._

In the years following Ruth’s death, Shay had drowned his grief in alcohol and Assassin blood. It wasn’t until Maggie returned to his life that he finally saw a future again. Shay smiled, thinking of his lady. She had brought joy back into his life. He couldn’t imagine a life without her anymore; hopefully, he’d never have to find out. He _was_ twenty years older than her, after all. If there was any mercy in the world, Maggie would outlive him by decades.

Haytham had married them, in a quiet Templar ceremony. A few years later, Shay had returned to home, the Box in hand, only for his Grandmaster to send him off again – this time to find and petition the Inner Sanctum. Armed with the knowledge of Church’s treason, Shay had successfully convinced the Sanctum to make him their Inquisitor. He’d fulfilled his duty well over the next few years, tracking Pieces of Eden and killing traitors to the Templar cause. He’d passed that duty on to one of his students now; Solo Bolden was an excellent fit for the role.

Shay had been on a mission in Paris – ensuring the treaty negotiations weren’t completely destroyed by the French – when Jay had reached out with letters from Haytham and Charles. _And now I’m here,_ Shay thought, _finishing what they started._

For the first time, it didn’t feel wrong.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

The next few days went by in a flurry motion.

Shay started by sending a sleeping grenade among the carriage horses. Some sleeping darts knocked out the passengers. In the ensuing confusion – once everyone awakened – no one noticed the loosened wheels until it was entirely too late. A stop was made to repair them.

That delay allowed Shay to arrange others: a tree just happened to block the road; an overturned ox cart did the same. One of the bridles, subtly weakened, snapped when one of the horses ‘spooked’ courtesy of a berserk dart. It took hours for the commissioners to sort out _that_ mess.

After careful application of a grenade caused a small rock fall, ensuring the delegates would be forced onto a two-day detour, the Grandmaster decided his job was done.

Releasing the gelding to find his way home, Shay bought himself another at a passing farm. He wasn’t hiding now, and there was no sense risking being caught with stolen property. The farmer badly overcharged him, but that hardly mattered – if the Templars had one great advantage, it was their deep pockets.

Riding hard, Shay made it to Alexandria by noon of the equinox. The Marylanders were already there, seeking their Virginian counterparts. Shay smiled as he exchanged horses. _For once,_ he thought, as he rode to Mt. Vernon, _everything is going as planned._

Now, he just had to convince George. Fortunately, Shay had a secret weapon – Martha. Mrs. Washington never could give up the opportunity to host. He found the couple enjoying the late afternoon sun, and quickly laid out the situation. George frowned as Shay explained the Marylander’s conundrum. “And the Virginians aren’t there?”

“I’m afraid something must have delayed them, George.” _Me_ , Shay thought. Washington nodded, pensive.

“Well, we can hardly leave them twiddling their thumbs,” Martha announced, determinedly. “We’ll have them here. George, dear, you will go invite them, won’t you?”

The general smiled at his wife. “Of course, Martha. Shay, you’ll accompany me?”

“I’d be delighted.” A blatant lie; the past few days had done little for the Grandmaster’s recovery. He could hardly admit to _that_ , though.

They walked toward the stables, discussing the potential ramifications of the conference. “It could inspire a new era of interstate cooperation,” Washington suggested.

Shay nodded. “One can hope. A pity it has come to this, however.”

The general inclined his head in acknowledgement. “The Congress has been less effective in such matters than we might wish.”

_George_ , Shay decided, _has a remarkable knack for understatement._ “They need leadership,” the Grandmaster said, glancing sideways at his companion.

Washington frowned. “Not _mine_ , Shay. I am a private citizen, and glad of it.”

Shay began to speak, intent on pressing further. “Geo –”

“Where have you been?” A sharp voice demanded. Shay sighed.

Washington frowned. “Who –”

“An associate of mine,” Shay said coolly. “Miss… Carter, wasn’t it?”

The Assassin woman scowled. “You were supposed to be _here._ You weren’t.”

“Was I?” Shay asked mildly. “Mentor Kenway neglected to mention that.” Carter glared. Shay raised a brow. “If you _must_ know, I was doing business in Richmond.” George Monro had been, providing his father with an alibi before taking ship to Massachusetts.

The woman frowned. “I didn’t see you leave.”

“Were you spying?” Shay asked dryly. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice. _Do_ let me know next time, so I can inform you.” He saddled his horse, perfectly calm.

Washington was glowering at the Assassin. “I thought,” he said slowly, “Connor and I had reached an accord.” _Interesting,_ Shay thought.

Carter’s face softened. “It’s not you we don’t trust, General. It’s _him_.”

Washington’s frown deepened. “Even so. Please inform Connor that I would appreciate it if he refrained from spying on my friends in my own home.”

As they rode past the incensed Assassin, the Grandmaster smirked. An unexpected surprise, but not an unwelcome one. A pity he couldn’t see Connor’s face when the boy found out about this. _I’ll have to ask Nathanial._ “George,” Shay said, as they headed down the road to Alexandria, “while the delegations are at Mt. Vernon, why not share some of your ideas? We businessmen tend to have a different perspective than the politicians…”

* * *

The Conference reconvened, with the arrival of the Virginians, on March 25th. George Washington presided.

Grandmaster Shay Cormac watched from the rafters as the General led the men through three days of arguments, debates, and, finally, agreements. The trek to a new, better government had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Serratus: muscle on the upper, outer portion of the chest.
> 
> George Monro Cormac: The first real Master Hunter, although his father is often given that honor. Basically the person who turned the Hunters from Shay Cormac's kids and protegees into the semi-independent branch of the Order they are today.
> 
> Hunters: Basically, Assassins who happen to be Templars. Seriously. If they didn't put the Cross on EVERYTHING, you'd probably think they were on the other side. Totally loyal though. Like, seriously loyal.
> 
> Left Hand: So all Hunters do this now. And the Master Hunter brands his finger with the Assassin mark... even though most Assassins don't anymore.
> 
> Henry Knox: The guy Fort Knox is named for. First US Secretary of War.
> 
> Robert Morris: Financier of the American Revolution and Templar
> 
> Haym Salomon: The OTHER financier of the American Revolution (Half of Morris' notes go: 'ask Salomon'). Joined the Assassin cause in Poland, and continued it here. Apocryphally, the reason we have a Star of David on the American Dollar, but this probably isn't true.
> 
> Patrick Henry: Governor of Virginia, famous for saying 'give me liberty or give me death.' Unsurprisingly, he later became an Assassin.
> 
> Henderson: Virginia delegate to the Mt. Vernon Conference
> 
> Mason: delegate to the Mt. Vernon conference and the Constitutional convention. Refused to sign the Constitution.
> 
> Dancing Brook: Wife of Charles Lee, and elder sister of Ruth. Yes, Shay and Lee were brothers-in-law.
> 
> Lee Twins: Charles Jr. and Virginia
> 
> Outlive: This didn't happen. Shay lives to be about 115, or so our records indicate. And was teaching his grandson to freerun in his hundred-teens. Frankly, I'm jealous.
> 
> Solomon Bolden: A Black Cross
> 
> Deep pockets: So Shay was actually really rich. As in: had a stake in half of Manhattan. He was probably one of the wealthiest people in the world at the time, but you wouldn't know it. His fortune was later split between his many children. The investment income is STILL being used to fund the Hunters.
> 
> AUthor's Note: Shay's age in the Animus records is cannon, btw. Mostly because the guy who wrote Last descendants clearly forgot when Shay was born. You can figure it out by guessing at Cudgel's implied age (25-30), subtracting it from 1864 (when LD takes place), and adding 8 (because Cudgel would have had to be at least that to remember his grandfather.) The result? Shay lived a really, really, long time.


	17. 1785: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

“Grandmaster!”

“Oh, don’t you start, Alexander,” Shay said cheerfully, “You’ve known me far too long for that.” Shay had known Alexander Hamilton since the latter was a boy. Shay had been good ‘friends’ with Rachel Faucette, along with Philip Hamilton, Alexander’s father. That had ended when Shay married Ruth, of course. Still, he’d kept in touch.

When Phillip left, and Rachel died, Shay’s bond with the boy had strengthened. He had practically raised the boy to the Order, knowing Hamilton’s brilliant mind would serve its interests well. Alexander had been the first person Shay had trained as a Hunter; initially intending to teach the boy to defend himself, Alexander had demanded more. He always did, facing down life like it was an enemy he needed to defeat. Given time, Shay had no doubt Alexander could.

“How’s Eliza?” He asked now. Alexander’s wife had been born to the Templar Order. She was a fine match for the brilliant youth, as capable in her own way as her husband. Shay anticipated great things from both of them.

“Busy with the children, or she’d be here,” Alexander answered, pulling out a chair.

Shay sat gratefully. Over a month later, and his upper chest was _still_ sore from the bullet. He hated being old. “I’m glad to hear that Alexander. How’s fatherhood treating you?”

“It’s amazing,” the boy smiled broadly. “Philip’s been talking – mostly ‘no’ and ‘mine’ – and following me all about the house. Every time I turn, he’s there!”

Shay laughed. “He’s really growing up. I’ll have to visit before I leave.”

“You won’t be staying?” The young man asked, pulling out three glasses. He filled two, handing one to Shay.

“Not long, I’m afraid,” he replied, sipping at the wine, enjoying its fruity notes. “Matters in Massachusetts are delicate; I’ll have to attend things personally. George Monro will cover for me here.”

Alexander frowned. “The rebellion isn’t coming along?”

Shay chuckled darkly. “Oh, no. Quite the opposite. The populace there is so excited at the chance of a _second_ Revolution, that they’re likely to rise up _now.”_

Alexander laughed. “That _would_ be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

“A rather big one, seeing as I need them to rise up _next_ Summer.”

The younger Templar continued to laugh, as a sharp knock on the door announced their third participant.

“Mr. Jay,” Shay smiled, as Alexander led the man in, “welcome.”

“Grandmaster,” the diplomat replied. “It’s good to see you. I trust matters went well in Virginia?”

“Wonderfully,” Shay confirmed. “Washington led the delegations to a thirteen-point compromise.” Shay swirled his wine, allowing himself a smug moment. “Everyone was entirely enamored of him; Virginia will undoubtedly insist he be part of any future delegations. The rest of the nation will be equally insistent he be put in charge of all such future endeavors.”

“Excellent.” Jay settled himself at the table, pouring a glass of wine. “And the Assassin Mentor?”

“Preoccupied with matters in Franklin,” Shay said cheerfully. “From what Nathanial has said, it seems he’s brought in the Louisiana woman, too. They should be keeping the area in order for us until the Kentucky distraction is ready.”

Alexander frowned. “ _Can_ we trust Sullivan?” he asked. “The man is a loose cannon.”

Shay sighed. “I’m sending Filson to keep him in line. And our Canadian friends are keeping a close eye on the other side. It isn’t perfect, but we don’t have nearly enough men out there. Or here, for that matter.”

“That Assassin truly hurt us,” Alexander said angrily.

“Which is why we are going to be far more careful this time,” Shay said. “The fewer of us he knows of, the fewer he can reach.”

“Agreed.” Jay sipped slowly at his wine. “Though we may have a new recruit soon. Randolph and I have been working on his cousin, John Marshall. He’s a brilliant young man, and I think he could go far.”

“Good,” Shay said. “Keep me abreast. And how are your negotiations?”

Jay leaned back, a smug smile playing across his face. “I’ve been playing the Spanish ambassador, Gardoqui. The fool thinks he’s playing me; I’ve received a lovely stallion and he’s sent Washington an ass.”

Shay chuckled. “Yes, George was eager to regale me on the wonders of mule breeding. He’s expecting the first offspring soon.”

Jay smirked. “The ambassador is convinced I’m a self-centered fool. He seems to think he can bribe me into accepting the Mississippi closure. I won’t, of course.”

“You will,” the Grandmaster corrected. “Not yet, mind. But when the time is right, we can use the Mississippi to break this Union.”

“Is that why you had them shut it?” Alexander wondered.

Shay laughed ruefully. “You give me too much credit, Alexander. The Spanish managed that on their own. They aren’t very happy at the thought of America expanding west. Fortunate for us, however, and since we aren’t responsible, the Assassins will find nothing to tie us to it.”

“I’ll continue to string the ambassador along then,” Jay declared, “until you give the word, Grandmaster.”

Shay nodded. “And how go matters with your other recruit – King, I believe?”

Jay tapped his glass thoughtfully. “I think he’s receptive. I have to be careful – we’re communicating by post – but I believe he may make an excellent addition to our Order.”

“Keep at it then. But that reminds me,” Shay added, “have any of the Pinckneys contacted you?”

“Thomas,” Jay replied, “on behalf of his brother. We need to be careful with Cotesworth; his wife was a Middleton. Arthur has buried all traces of her allegiance, but…”

Shay nodded. “You can’t be too careful, _especially_ with Assassins.”

“Just so. Thomas and I are couching our discussions in the form of political debate; perfectly reasonable considering our respective positions. I don’t believe it will draw undue scrutiny.”

“I trust your discretion, John.” The Grandmaster turned to the youngest of the three Templars. “How goes the bank, Alexander?”

Alexander smirked. “Quite well. I think it will do us much good in the future.”

Shay smiled fondly at the young man. “How many banks have you started now?”

The boy grinned. “Not nearly enough. Money is power and banks are where the money is.”

The three chuckled, moving on from business to more mundane matters. Jay had married in the past year and was now expecting his first. Alexander had had a daughter – “One of each!” – and was eager to share his newfound experience. Shay had his own stories to tell, both of Moira’s exploits and that of her siblings.

Talk of family turned to friends and then to the many varied lands they had visited over the years. It was well past midnight when tired – and more than a little drunk – they finally bade one another farewell. Laughing quietly, Shay leapt across the rooftops of his home. New York was where he was born and where his heart remained. No matter how far he travelled, or how high he rose, this would always be his port.

_I am quite high_ , he thought tipsily, balancing atop St. Paul’s steeple. “I’ll take _you_ back,” he promised _his_ city, wind whipping the words away. “Even if I can’t get the rest, _you’re_ mine. I’ve driven those damned Assassins from you once – I will do it again.”

He looked out over Manhattan Isle, over the city of New York and across the bay to Brooklyn, Brigid wheeling high above. Eyes affixed to the horizon, he stepped forward…

… and took a Leap of Faith.

End Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Rachel Faucette: Alexander Hamilton's mother. Umm... Who was Hamilton's father again...?
> 
> Philip Hamilton: Right, this guy. He was Hamilton's father... officially.
> 
> Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton: Hamilton's wife, and more than capable in her own right. She was born into a proud Templar dynasty.
> 
> Philip Hamilton: Named for his (probable) grandfather. Not to be confused with the younger brother named for him. He was killed by an Assassin in 1801, despite NOT being a Templar. Apparently, being the son of one is guilt enough.
> 
> John Jay: Diplomat, First US Chief Justice, and governor of New York. He held the role of Grandmaster at some point. Under his leadership NYS abolished slavery, and Tammany Hall became a Templar tool.
> 
> Aveline de Grandpre: Louisiana based Master Assassin. It's unclear if she ever officially took the title of mentor, though she essentially was.
> 
> John Filson: writer, historian, founder of Cincinnati, and a Templar. He was killed by Assassins in 1788.
> 
> John Marshal: The most important US Chief Justice. Seriously. Without Marshal there wouldn't be judicial review. He also served as the Pan-American Grandmaster, starting the tradition of a Templar Chief Justice holding the role.
> 
> Diego María de Gardoqui y Arriquibar: Whew! Long name. Spanish ambassador to the US.
> 
> Mississipi Closure: The Spanish did this all on there own. Any claims otherwise are Assassin LIES. 
> 
> Rufus King: Federalist party leader and Massachusetts delegate to the Constitutional Convention.
> 
> Bank of New York: Today the BNY Mellon
> 
> St. Paul's Chapel: The little chapel that stood, it is the oldest church building in Manhattan. It survived the Great Fire and 9/11. Also development, which might be the greater miracle.


	18. Interlude:2020

Interlude:2020

* * *

Juhani abruptly emerged from the simulation, sharp pain stabbing into his mind. He took a deep breath, then slowly released it. Sudden desynchronization was never especially enjoyable.

He rubbed his temples briefly, then leaned over and silenced the blaring alarm. “Yes,” he said dryly,” I _am_ aware of the problem.”

The problem being the degraded genetic sample. Clearly the Animus would need more data if it was to continue reconstructing Grandmaster Cormac’s memories. Juhani would simply have to return to exploring Connor’s.

It was a pity; Juhani had enjoyed reliving a Templar’s life for once. It was a rare opportunity; understanding their enemies' drive was far more important than exploring their own.

It had been fascinating, watching Shay Cormac grow into his role as Grandmaster. He had been a fine, albeit unorthodox, one. Grandmaster Cormac had reigned from exile, working through letters and intermediaries. Yet, despite those handicaps, he had managed to restore his Rite to greatness.

Viewing those early days, Juhani could clearly see the seeds being sown. _Now,_ he thought, _to see what they reap._

He returned to the Animus, and the memories of Connor Kenway.


	19. 1786: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Connor sat beside the dying fire. _I should stir it_ , he thought, but found himself too weary to do so. _Too bad the fires **here** won’t die down_. It seemed every time he put one out another sprouted.

The war between the tribes and the settlers continued to grow; each atrocity returned with one greater. Franklin had been bad and the Ohio Valley might be even worse. Surprisingly, Connor found himself missing Nathanial. The frontiersman may have been a Templar, but he had made the time in Franklin bearable.

_I wonder how he’s getting on with Aveline_ , Connor mused. Nathanial had chosen to remain in the lands of the Oyata’ge’ronoñ, seeking his son, the ever elusive Sequoya. Supposedly, at least. Connor doubted the man ever intended to _find_ the boy, but he wished Gist well regardless.

The Assassin’s thoughts turned to his own son, far away in upstate New York. He missed the boy terribly. It was rare Connor could spend time with his family; Thayendanegea’s hatred remained relentless. Why _did_ the man hate him so much, Connor wondered? Thayendanegea had fought for the British; perhaps that was why. Many among the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka were angry at Connor for working with their enemies. The War Chief had been quick to forgive the Oneida, but perhaps it was different for one of his own tribe.

“I know that face,” Dobby said, her voice startling Connor from his thoughts. “Stop thinking and go to sleep, Connor. We’ll be at Vincennes tomorrow.”

Connor nodded, rising from his spot by the fire. “Dobby,” he asked abruptly, “why do _you_ think Thayendanegea hates me?”

“Ask Cormac,” the other Assassin replied sharply. “I bet he knows.”

Connor shook his head. “This… I do not believe the Templars are responsible for it.”

“Maybe not,” Dobby conceded. “But they know more than they’re letting on.” She scowled. “I don’t trust them.”

“Nor I,” Connor admitted. He couldn’t – not when Shay Cormac remained red to his Vision. “But they _have_ been behaving well.” Concerningly so; Shay had rebuilt his home in New York and seemed content to remain there with his family. Jamie and Stephane reported seeing him regularly, but Connor distrusted it. The longer the Templar remained in New York, the more certain Connor was he _wasn’t_ there.

“That’s what worries me,” Dobby said, unwittingly voicing Connor’s thoughts. “Templars are _never_ this good. They just can’t stop themselves from meddling.”

“No,” Connor agreed. “But we have an alliance, and I will _not_ break it over suspicion.” _Not **this** time._

His fellow Assassin scowled. “I know you won’t. Not until he turns against you.”

“When he does, we’ll be ready,” Connor assured her.

“Maybe,” Dobby conceded. “But what if that’s too late?”

* * *

Vincennes was a small town, deep in Kentucky Territory. It held three peoples, none of whom were particularly fond of the others. The Americans called the French haughty and uptight and denounced the tribes as savage; the French thought the Americans uncouth and the Native people wild and dangerous; the Tribes despised both as thieves and interlopers.

“It’s a wonder they haven’t managed to start a war,” Dobby commented dryly.

“We are here to prevent them from doing so,” Connor reminded her. They had arrived just in time, it seemed. Men were gathering on the street, wearing their old army uniforms and carrying weapons. A white man wearing a beaver-skin hat and Lenape garb was ringing the alarm, calling the militia to arms.

“Who is that man?” Connor asked, pointing at the bell-ringer.

“Daniel Sullivan,” one of the militia answered.

Connor frowned. “He is not Lenape.”

“Lenape?” The militia man repeated blankly. Then his face brightened. “Oh, you mean the clothes! Damn Injuns stole Danny when he was a boy. Been part savage ever since, but he’s _our_ Savage.”

Connor’s face darkened. “They are not–”

“Easy,” Dobby tugged Connor toward her, away from the hapless settler. “Do you _want_ to fight the whole town?”

“No.” Connor glowered at the crowd. The Lenape man, Sullivan, had stopped ringing the bell. Another man had joined him, who was now addressing the crowd. “You all know why we’re here,” the unknown speaker began. “For months we’ve been raided, our crops burned, our ships capsized. Now, we’re all good Christian men, so we’ve been patient; turned the other cheek. But this time the Savages have gone too far.

“Latroumelle wasn’t hurting anyone. He was a simple man, living a simple life. All he did was raise vegetables and cattle on land he’d bought fair. And for that he was murdered! Scalped! His wife and babes taken captive! And what’s to become of them? Made to be wives? Slaves? Food, or sacrifice? _Or even worse?!”_

The gathered men stirred, anger rising like a tide. “This is becoming a mob,” Dobby whispered.

Connor frowned. “Stopping that man will only make them angrier,” he muttered back.

“Are we going to allow this?” The speaker continued. “Or do we fight back? I say we fight! Fight, like we have always fought! Fight and drive those Indians back! Rescue Mistress Latroumelle! Save her children! And make those Savage murderers pay!”

The militia howled it assent.

“Here, here!”

“We’re with you, Small!”

“Make those bastards pay!”

“Then follow!” Cried the speaker, leaping onto his horse. With a wordless cry of rage, the militia followed.

“We have to stop this,” Dobby hissed.

“They spoke of captives,” Connor said quietly. “If we save them, they will have no reason to fight.”

Dobby frowned. “You really think that’ll work?” She asked skeptically. “They seem pretty eager.”

Connor shook his head. “No. But I know they will _not_ stop _until_ the captives are free. And the family should be saved regardless.” He began to climb a nearby building, ignoring the startled comments of the passerby. “We should move quickly.” He ran, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, Dobby following behind.

* * *

Ash and smoke covered the land which had once been the Latroumelle farm. The smell of burnt wood mixed with flesh brought back memories of the worst sort. _Istá…_ His mother had died in a fire like this, when Washington set their village aflame. It had left Connor with a burning fury that had taken decades to quench. It had, eventually, but the years between had been filled with blood and grief.

Cormac’s older sons still held fast to their hatred of the Assassins who slew their mother. Sometimes Connor thought their father did too. _Will these children suffer the same?_ The Assassin wondered. He hoped not; blood feuds were terrible things which only ended when there were none left to fight.

He activated his Eagle Vision, signs appearing about him. “They were dragged.” He followed the trail to what had been a stable. Glowing hoofprints led away. “They went this way.” He freeran, Dobby following.

“Why would they do this?” the woman demanded furiously.

“The same reason as the settlers,” Connor responded. “They’re angry.”

It did not take long to find the captives. The mother and children had been tied to trees, surrounded by a handful of warriors. The rest had likely gone to meet the angry militia. As unhappy as Connor was with the settlers, the treatment of these children could not be borne. They were innocents and should never have been dragged into this war.

“We will have to strike fast,” Connor said. It was always risky when hostages were involved. If they weren’t careful, it would be the innocent family who paid the price.

“Lure them and strike?” Dobby suggested.

Connor nodded. “But be careful to remain unseen.” They separated, each taking a target.

Connor moved quietly around the guards watching a child. He chose a tree, near enough they would come, but not so close he would be noticed prematurely. The Assassin blew a quick, sharp, whistle. One of the guards lifted his head. “Did you hear that?”

“No?” His companion responded.

“I’ll go look, just in case.” The guard walked toward Connor, never thinking to look up. As he crossed beneath the branch, the Assassin leaped down, slitting the man’s throat. The warrior fell with a soft gurgle, blood pooling beneath him.

Looking back toward the captives, Connor saw Dobby taking out a guard of her own. There were no cries of alarm; the two Assassins had yet to be noticed.

Carefully, Connor snuck close to the second guard. He shot a dart into the man’s neck, between the gaps in the spine. The warrior fell paralyzed, but not quite dead. The Assassin carefully retracted the dart, pulling the wounded man toward him. The warrior stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, desperately trying to breathe with frozen lungs. Connor ended his life with a quick thrust to the heart.

Dobby had taken care of the last man guarding the children. There were four left now, guarding their mother.

Connor whistled, hidden behind the tall grass. He raised his bow and whistled a second time.

“What is that?” A guard demanded.

“Probably a bird,” another replied, obviously bored, “like last time. Stop jumping at shadows.”

The first man scowled. “I’m going to look.”

“Suit yourself,” drawled a third.

Snarling, the first guard walked off, cursing as he headed toward the Assassin. “Damn them! Lazy, good for noth–” An arrow pierced his heart, silencing him for good.

Connor motioned to Dobby, who raised a hand in acknowledgement. They drew closer to the remaining guards. “Hey,” the fourth spoke up. “Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

Connor gave them no time to consider. He launched himself at two men. His Hidden Blades sunk deep into the warriors’ skulls with a harsh **_crunch_** ; blood spraying as the Assassin retracted the weapons. Beside him, Dobby finished the last with a dagger in the base of the neck. The guard fell, twitching.

The captive woman gaped at them, her face tear streaked and eyes wide. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t hurt my babies!”

“Of course not!” Dobby exclaimed, horrified. “We’re here to help you.”

Connor nodded, cutting the woman from the tree. “Dobby will help you get to town.” He indicated the female Assassin, who had just finishing releasing the children. “I need to go – stop this from becoming a war.” If it was even possible; a war was the last thing the Confederation needed here, not when they had the ones in Georgia and the Carolinas to worry about. Many of the settlers blamed the British for the trouble, angry at their enemies for refusing to abandon their forts as promised in the Treaty of Paris. _They are not wrong,_ Connor admitted.

But the treaty between the Americans and British had been signed without the consent or opinions of his people. That was not the Americans fault – to their minds they had won fair; the British had been unkind to those they called allies, signing away lands they had no right to. It was easier to blame the Americans for theft than the British for playing false, particularly when the latter were so quick to arm the tribes against the former. _They are still using us,_ Connor thought ruefully. _And we allow them, still_.

But what choice did his people have? Congress could neither stop the settlers, nor make treaties. In fact, they seemed more likely to fall apart over the possibility of one with the Spanish! Not even Jay, for all his diplomatic skill, could convince the Spaniards to open the Mississippi. Connor was almost grateful for that – the river’s closure was a guard for his people – if that reality were not likely to destroy the Union.

_Life was easier_ , he thought sadly, _when the answers were simple._ But the answers had never truly been simple; Connor had only thought they were.

He freeran down the road, hoping to waylay the militia. The deafening sound of gunshots told him he was too late. Inwardly cursing, Connor activated his Eagle Vision as he approached the battlefield. He needed the commander. The men shifted before his eyes, some glowing white or red. A few even shone blue. In the thick of combat a golden man urged his men on. Connor _marked_ him, then released his Vision.

The man continued to glow, visible through the other combatants. Shay’s Gift was a useful one, and it had served Connor well in the year since he had acquired it. _I wonder if mine has served him as well_ , he idly wondered as he maneuvered the battlefield.

The golden man stood beside Sullivan. The latter was red, Connor noted. “I have the woman and children,” he said. “They are safe.”

“What?!” The commander shouted, his hand to his ear.

“The woman is safe!” Connor repeated, louder. “You can retreat!”

“No way!” Sullivan snapped. “We’re making them pay!”

“Think!” Connor insisted. “How many of your men have already died today? How many more will you get killed seeking revenge?”

“He’s right,” the commander said.

“Small!” Sullivan shot the man a betrayed look.

The commander, Small, ignored him, focusing on Connor. “Mistress Latroumelle is safe?”

“Yes,” Connor replied, “and her children.”

Small nodded, raising a curved horn to his lips. It gave forth a surprisingly loud sound. “Mistress Latroumelle and the children are safe! Return to the town! We live to fight another day!”

Slowly, the settlers disengaged, withdrawing down the road. Connor followed them, helping to cover the retreat. “They’re going to come after us,” Sullivan warned angrily.

“Let us hope not,” Connor said, but he knew it was futile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Vincennes: A small town that caused a lot of grief. Most Americans today haven't heard of it. Of course, most Americans today have no clue they ever fought the Northwest Indian war...
> 
> Lenape: Delaware
> 
> Latroumelle: A farmer living near Vincennes
> 
> John Small: First Sheriff of Knox County and noted gunsmith. A sometime ally of the Assassins, though he was known to befriend Templars as well.
> 
> AUthor’s Note:  
> The events with Latroumelle were found in only one source. I thought it made for a good story, but I can’t swear to its accuracy, as opposed to the other major events here, for which I have primary source documentation.


	20. 1786: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

John Small had been a pleasant surprise for Connor. Having heard the man’s speech, he expected Small to be deeply prejudiced. He was, but not nearly so much as the Assassin had feared. John Small’s prejudices went as far as landownership and no further. “I have no hatred for the Indians,” the man explained. “Nor any man. But we won this land fair, and they’ve no right to keep us from it.”

Connor disagreed, but he was wise enough now not to say it. “I thought some of these tribes were your allies?”

Small nodded sadly. “They were. Some fool commander attacked the wrong village, and we’ve been at war ever since.”

“I see,” Connor said. He did. “Their grievance is justified.”

“I’m not saying no,” Small conceded. “But _we_ didn’t attack them. They’ve no right to wipe us out. The tribes mean to drive us out of Kentucky and that isn’t right either.”

“You ever consider talking?” Dobby suggested dryly.

“Of course I have,” Small proclaimed indignantly. “But they aren’t interested in listening, and the townsfolk neither.”

_Nor do you_ , Connor thought, _for all you claim otherwise._ There was too much anger in Vincennes, aimed by all in all directions. The territory was on the brink of war and Connor feared they would bring the rest of the Nation with them. The United States could not afford a war when so divided… and Connor’s people could not afford one at all. “What do you intend?” he asked.

“I’m going to send a letter to congress,” John Small announced.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” A scowl crossed Dobby’s face. “I’ve never known Congress _not_ to make things worse.”

Connor agreed, but he suspected it was for different reasons. _The problem,_ Connor mused, _is not what Congress **will** do; it is what they will **not**_.

The Confederation government was foundering. Congress and the States were splitting over the matter of the Spanish Treaty. Jay had given up on convincing Gardoqui, the Spanish ambassador, to relent on the Mississippi closure. He was now trying to convince Congress to allow him to negotiate a treaty with the possibility of keeping the river closed. The Southern States were furious, while the Northern ones approved. There was serious talk of the Northern States creating their own Federation, and of the Southern States doing the same. Jay’s petition had unearthed all the hidden flaws, and the Union was now on the verge of shattering. Any additional pressure, and it could break.

_We will need to stop this request from reaching Congress,_ Connor decided. Governor Henry could send any needed troops instead. “How do you intend to send this letter?”

“I’ll send Filson down the Wabash,” Small answered. “He knows people in Philadelphia.”

Connor frowned. “You should prepare a convoy. The river is not safe.”

Dobby shot him a perplexed look, but she knew well enough to back him up. “You’ve had a lot of river attacks; you’ll want to be sure the message gets through.”

Small nodded. “That’s wise,” he agreed. “It’ll take some time to prepare, mind.”

Connor hid a smile. “Do it anyway,” he advised.

* * *

“What are you up to?” Dobby demanded as Connor reached for a pigeon. He was surprised she’d waited so long to confront him.

“We need to stop that letter,” he explained. “We could not dissuade him so I bought us time.”

“I know,” Dobby said irritably. “I figured that much. But what are you doing _now_?”

“Getting a ship.”

“The _Aquila_ won’t fit on these rivers,” Dobby pointed out, “which is _why_ I’m wondering what you’re doing.”

“Yes,” Connor agreed, smirking. “But the **_Morrigan_ **does.”

Dobby blinked, then grinned. “You’re commandeering the _Morrigan_?” She asked delightedly.

“I am requesting aid from my ally,” Connor said firmly.

Dobby burst into laughter. “Oh, that Templar’s going to be _mad_! Wish I could see Cormac’s face when he gets this.”

“I doubt _he_ will receive it,” Connor said dryly, “but it _will_ force him out of wherever he _is_.”

Dobby raised a questioning brow, her laughter petering out. “You don’t think he’s in New York?”

“No.”

Dobby frowned. “But Jamie and Stephane–”

“Are being tricked.” How, and for what purpose, Connor did not know, and he was not willing to break _this_ alliance on suspicion. But if Shay Cormac really was in New York, the Assassin would be shocked.

When the Morrigan arrived a week later, Connor was disappointed to see his suspicions proven true. Cormac’s skin was far too tanned and weatherworn for someone living an easy life in New York City. “You were right,” Dobby muttered, as she passed him, on the way to the bunks with her things. Connor was surprised at how much the betrayal stung. Despite knowing better, he had hoped… but it did not matter. Cormac was here, which the Assassin took to mean the Templar still saw value in their alliance. _But who does it serve…?_

“Welcome aboard,” the man in question said cheerfully, drawing Connor from his dark thoughts.

“You seem happy,” the Assassin noted, careful to keep any turmoil from his voice.

Shay laughed. “I am. Nathanial’s still searching for that boy of his, so my girl is mine again – at least until he gets back.” The Templar fixed the ship with a fond and proprietary gaze. “I’ve missed her. I had _Macha_ in Europe, but she’s only a third of the _Morrigan_.”

Connor wondered at the Templar’s affection for his vessel. Faulkner was the same with the _Aquila._ The Assassin had never been able to understand it; a ship was just a tool. “She is alive to you,” he said slowly.

“Aye,” Shay agreed, his voice soft. “They all are, but she was my first, the only one to follow me from the beginning. The others have only ever flown the Cross; _she_ flew the Eagle’s Beak, until I cut it off and my hood with it.” He shook his head, returning to the present. “But what was it you needed her for? Your message didn’t say.”

“The men in this town are sending a message to Congress,” Connor said, off put by the sudden shift in conversation. He knew the Morrigan had been Cormac’s, but not when the man was still an Assassin. There were no hints onboard of the ship’s former allegiance. “We are going to stop it.”

Shay nodded. “We can ambush them by the Falls.”

“You know this area?” Connor asked, brow furrowed.

Shay smirked. “I know every river between the Atlantic and the Mississippi, lad. I’ve certainly sailed them enough. When can we expect your messenger?”

“Filson should pass the Falls at the beginning of June,” Connor explained. “You made better time than expected, so we should have a few days to prepare.”

“I’ll make good use of them,” Shay assured him.

“No questions?” Dobby asked dryly, returning to the deck.

“I assume you have your reasons,” the Templar replied. “If you wanted to tell me, you would have. I’m not going to pry into Assassin business; I expect the same courtesy in return.”

The days passed quickly enough, preparing for the ambush and performing the myriad of small tasks which kept a ship running. Still, there were many moments where one could find quiet, and peace. Connor leaned back into the rigging, watching the men toil below. A sudden tautness in the ropes informed him of company. “Missing your boy?” Shay asked.

“Some,” Connor admitted, “and his mother.” Recalling Dobby’s words, weeks earlier, he asked, “Do _you_ know why Thayendanegea hates me?”

“I do,” Shay admitted.

“But you will not tell me.”

It wasn’t a question, but the Templar answered anyway. “It’s not mine to tell. It _is_ personal – but that’s all I’ll say. You’ll have to ask Joseph yourself.”

Connor scowled, anger flaring up. “He drives me from my family – my home! – and you will not tell me why?!”

Shay turned, meeting the Assassin’s gaze head-on. “It is not mine to tell,” he repeated firmly.

Connor glowered at the deck, looking away. He understood, but it did not make it easier. “You have a new son,” he said instead, hoping to trip the Templar up. Cormac had not been in New York despite his claims; let him struggle for answers he did not have.

“Yes.” Shay shifted, and Connor felt a momentary smugness at the Templar’s clear discomfort.

“Did you not want me to know?”

“No… That’s not…” Shay rubbed his left finger, where Connor knew the Assassin brand lay. “You don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Connor blinked, confused. “Why should I mind your having a son?”

“Not that.” The Templar waved his hand distractedly. “That I named him after your Da.”

“You…” Connor stared at the other man, thrown. _That_ he had not expected. “You named him… for my father?”

Shay nodded, looking sheepish. “ _Haytham Edward_ Cormac. I have a tendency to name my children for men – and women – I respected. Conlan Patrick, George Monro, Christopher, Liam Adéwalé, Hope… named two Lawrence but neither of them…” he sighed, grief briefly crossing his face. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Connor said. Then, “I don’t mind.”

Shay nodded again, looking out at the river. “Good. I wasn’t sure… He mattered to me, your Da. I always planned, the next boy that came along…”

Connor smiled, anger all but gone. It was rare to see the older man so ill at ease. _He wanted my approval,_ the Assassin realized. “I do not mind,” he repeated. He did not. Shay Cormac was free to name his sons what he would, and Connor was glad his father would have his name carried on. “I think Father would be pleased as well.”

Shay smiled sadly. “I’d like to think so. He was a great man.”

“Tell me about him.” It struck Connor he had never asked and now, with the time running out on their alliance, he might never have another chance. Shay Cormac had _known_ Haytham Kenway as Connor never would. A diary was all well and good, but it was not the same as a living person, someone who had laughed and cried and raged alongside his father. In forging a relationship with the Templar, some part of Connor hoped to connect with the father he had slain but never knew.

But he had never asked.

Shay gazed thoughtfully out at the river. “He was a good man,” the Templar said slowly. “Firm, but also kind. Devoted to our cause – well, we all were. But he was loyal to us, too. We weren’t just his Templars; we were his friends. Family, almost, in our own way.” Connor nodded, remembering how his father had sacrificed himself to save Lee. “He gave me a choice, you know?”

Connor blinked. “A choice?”

Shay smiled gently, eyes distant. “After I killed Adéwalé – he was an Assassin from St. Domingue. A good man; fought with your grandfather.”

“My grandfather,” Connor said blankly. “The Assassin.”

Shay chuckled. “Aye, but I think it was before Edward donned the hood. Anyway… we fought him, Haytham and I. Killing him… it was the most I ever came to doubt the Order. After, your father said I could leave if I wished. He took my ring,” Shay lifted his left hand. “Said he should not have had me swear so soon after losing George Monro. That it was not fair to push that on me then, never mind I’d wished to swear even before.”

“George Monro…” Connor interrupted. “I know you have a son by that name, but–”

Shay smiled. “He was the one who found me, after I fell from the cliff. I was still an enemy then, but he saved me all the same. He was the kindest and noblest man I have ever known.”

“To save an enemy,” Connor said quietly, “he must have been a good man.” Shay had mentioned this before, years ago now, by the cliff at Davenport. Connor had forgotten. “He was the one who brought you into the Order.”

“Yes,” Shay affirmed. “I wear his ring now.”

“The black one.”

“There was a fire… Liam slit his throat, and left him to die in the flames.” Connor flinchedm, remembering how his mother had screamed while the village burned.

“That is not a kind death.”

“No,” Shay agreed, “it’s not.” The old man sighed, looking away. “I pulled him from the flames, but it was too late. He gave me his ring then. When it cooled, it turned black. Black for a traitor – it suits me.”

Connor waited, but Shay seemed unwilling to continue. So he asked, “And after Adéwalé… my father took it?”

Shay startled, drawn from wherever his mind had drifted. “Aye,” he said after a moment. “Haytham told me that he would help me retrieve the Box and Manuscript – we could hardly let the Assassins keep it – but he would not hold me bound if I did not wish to be.”

“But you did,” Connor said. It was hardly a question – Cormac remained a Templar today.

“He ordered me to take a week to think it over, to be certain I believed in the cause and was not simply following Monro’s lead. At the end, I came back and swore my oaths a second time. I have never regretted it.”

“My father was wise,” Connor said thoughtfully. “You had come to doubt your cause before, and it led you to betray it. By letting you go, he ensured your loyalty.”

Shay chuckled. “That he was, and that he did, but I did not realize it for many years. And by then, I no longer had cause to doubt.”

_Because you had changed,_ Connor thought, but did not say. “What else can you tell me?” He asked instead.

“Haytham was… He could get stuck in his own head some times,” Shay smiled, voice lightening. “He was so serious – too serious really. Christopher – that’s Nathanial’s Da – Nathanial, Thomas – Thomas Hickey – and I used to try and get him to laugh. We’d make a game of it. Kept score, too.” Connor snorted. Shay grinned. “Sometimes Charles’d join us, if it was the right time.”

Recalling the angry, brooding man, Connor shook his head. “I would not have thought Lee the sort.”

Shay shrugged. “Well, you had to get him in the right month. He was plenty fun, if you did.”

Connor frowned. “Why would the month matter?”

“Some months he was angry, or miserable,” Shay explained. “We’d keep our heads down then; try to avoid him. Others he was wildly happy. We had a lot of fun then.” His eyes grew distant, reminiscing. “Most months he was somewhere between. That was the real man, I think. There was a pattern to it; you learned quickly if you knew him.”

Connor’s frowned deepened. “I did not know that.”

Shay shrugged. “We all have our quirks. It ran in his family, or so I heard. They were said to be eccentrics. Charles called it a ‘distemper of the mind’ on one of his gloomier days. I liked him well enough, when he wasn’t in a bad month.”

“His mind was not always his own,” Connor said, the realization hurting. He had known of such men; there had been one in Kanatahséton. Some had said he was possessed, before the warrior flung himself from a cliff, believing himself a bird. It was said the Peacemaker had healed such men, and they had gone on to spread the message of Unity to the Haudenosaunee. It was strange to think of Lee as one of these. He had never struck Connor so. _But I did not know him_. It had been easier to live with his deeds, when he did not know his victims.

“No,” Shay agreed thoughtfully. “it wasn’t.” The Templar laid his hand on Connor’s shoulder, squeezing gently. The Assassin stiffened, relaxing as the older man spoke. “Don’t trouble yourself over it. You didn’t know, and it wouldn’t have mattered if you did.”

“He strangled me,” Connor said quietly, throat aching in memory, “when I was a boy, the day Washington burned Kanatahséton.”

Shay nodded slowly. “I remember; it was a bad month,” he admitted. “Unusually so. We all did our best to avoid him, and did what he asked quickly, rather than risk his wrath.”

Connor twisted around, knocking the Templar’s hand aside. “You were there?!”

Shay shook his head. “I was with Christopher, trying to waylay George until the others could warn the village. Didn’t work, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Connor repeated blankly, struggling to hide his shock at the revelations. _They were there to…_ No. He would think on that later. “Tell me of your son – my father’s namesake.”

Shay chuckled, his eyes growing warm. “He’s got these odd colored eyes – sometimes blue, sometimes gray – like your Da had. They’re always looking, watching, like he wants to know everything…”

They spoke for hours, Assassin and Templar, as the summer sun slowly set over the Wabash river. Connor found himself wishing things could remain this way always. But Shay Cormac had not been in New York and that truth lay heavy over their momentary peace.

* * *

June second dawned bright and clear. The _Morrigan_ lay at anchor near the Falls, awaiting the Congressional messenger. All seemed to be going to plan. Connor could only hope it would continue to do so.

Shay frowned pensively, looking out at the water. “I hate waiting,” the Templar announced. “I always feel like it’s asking for something to go wrong.”

Connor understood. “It is as if things were going _too_ well.”

“Exactly.” The Templar ran his fingers through his graying hair. “I’m going to check the charts again; make sure there aren’t any rocks we’ve missed.” Connor chuckled, watching the older man storm off muttering imprecations.

Dobby snorted, crossing the deck to join him. “I see why you like him.”

Connor raised a brow. “Oh?”

“I think he was a lot like you once. Maybe even still is.”

Connor frowned, thinking back to Shay’s diary and the man who’d written it. The Assassin had read it many times now, as he had his father’s, hoping to understand the Templar. “Yes,” he admitted slowly, “I can see that. Not the same, but… similar.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden splash. A hand abruptly appeared on the bulkhead. Connor reached down, helping the dripping young man aboard. “Mentor Kenway,” Christopher Cormac said coldly, eyes full of loathing “I need to speak with Da.” Shay Cormac’s son had none of his father's fondness for Assassins, same as his absent twin Liam Adéwalé. Connor was glad the younger twin was not aboard; the boy had a nasty temper and their one meeting had not gone well. Christopher’s hatred was no less present, but his burned cold. It grieved Connor to see it, painful in its familiarity. He wondered how long it would take Cormac’s sons to learn the lesson of its futility, a lesson the Assassin had only learned too late. He could only hope it would not hurt _them_ as it had _him_.

The discovery of Washington’s duplicity had not eased Connor’s pain for his mother’s death; uncertain where to turn upon learning it had never been visited on the right culprit, he had turned it on his father and Washington both, before returning to Lee, where he had always placed it. _And now Cormac tells me they tried to save her and does not even seem to know what he has said._ The pain was never truly gone, even after the anger had faded in its entirety upon Haytham’s death.

But he said none of this. Christopher’s ears were closed to him, as they were to all Assassins. “Your father went to check his charts.”

The younger man nodded curtly, crossing the deck with a familiar grace. Like all the adult Cormac children Connor had met, Christopher had Assassin training. “It doesn’t bother you,” Dobby asked, following Connor’s gaze, “his being trained to kill us?”

“We train to kill _them_ ,” Connor pointed out, hiding his own disquiet. “It should not surprise us if they do the same.” Hunters for the father who had hunted down his own brothers.

“Not _they_ ,” Dobby insisted. “ _Cormac._ ” Connor inclined his head, silently acknowledging that truth as the man in question emerged from his cabin, conversing with his son.

“We have a problem,” the Templar said. “Chris?”

The young Hunter nodded. “The Piankeshaw have set up an ambush. They intend to stop Filson too, but I doubt they intend him to survive.”

That made matters far more complicated. Filson had many friends across the world as a result of his books; his death would spur unwanted action. “We will have to protect him,” Connor said.

“ _And_ stop the message.” Cormac shook his head irritably. “I _knew_ things were going too well.” For once, Assassins and Templars were entirely in agreement.

* * *

The battle was as bad as anticipated. As soon as Filson’s pirogue, surrounded by its haphazard accompaniment, appeared, the Piankeshaw swept out of hiding to confront it. Into the melee sailed the _Morrigan._ It was the first time Connor had had the chance to see her in combat and, he had to admit, she was marvelous. He could see why Shay was so fond of this ship.

“Keep to the Puckle guns,” the man ordered. “no cannons; those canoes are too close and too flimsy.”

Connor manned one of the odd tripod guns. They fired remarkably quickly, shooting nine shots a minute, far faster than any firearm he had seen before. It was remarkable sight. The Assassin quickly reloaded the weapon, carefully sinking the canoes. Some of the warriors and settlers had turned their guns on the larger ship in their midst, but most were too occupied with each other. _They ignore a greater foe in favor of their sworn enemy,_ Connor thought uneasily. It was too reminiscent of the Assassin/Templar war. _We say we fight for peace, but how often do we war for war?_

Connor scanned the canoes, seeking the one he needed. “Dobby!” The Assassin woman turned from her own weapon. “Filson’s pirogue; can you reach it?”

The woman frowned, then nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take him overland,” Connor said grimly. “Get him back to Vincennes.” With Filson off the river, the _Morrigan_ could stop being cautious and put an end to this debacle.

“Go with her,” Cormac ordered his son, not looking away from the helm. “You know these lands better than they.”

The younger Templar scowled at the female Assassin, but did not argue, choosing to head directly to the bulkhead. “Keep up.” He leaped forward, landing on a nearby canoe, barely pausing before moving to the next. Dobby cursed, following.

“That is not going to end well,” Connor noted.

Shay smirked. “I have full faith in my sons’ abilities.”

“As do I in my Assassins',” Connor countered. “But a fight to the death will not help our cause.”

Shay laughed, turning the helm. “Looks like our protegees have got Filson. What would you say to teaching the rest of these fools a lesson?”

Connor grinned back. “Yes.”

Shay expertly maneuvered the helm, shattering the canoes before the ice-ram as the _Morrigan_ cut through the battlefield. The smaller vessels scattered, trying to avoid being crushed under her bow. At the Templar’s order, the canons fired high above the fray. In the brief silence that followed, Shay bellowed, “This battle is _over!_ Or the next round turns you to driftwood!”

Begrudgingly outmatched, the combatants separated, rowing away. Shay sighed, Connor echoing. “We should leave,” the Assassin said, when the last canoe had quit the field.

The Templar nodded, turning his ship back down the river. “What a waste,” he said quietly. “All that effort… and for no purpose. What will war gain them?”

“Yes,” Connor said, meeting the Templar’s eyes. “It does seem so. Pity they cannot meet in the middle.”

“If no middle exists,” Shay replied, equally solemn, “it’s a little hard to meet.”

Though early summer, the day felt cold. “You will leave,” Connor said, a decision slowly solidifying, “when your son returns.”

Cormac nodded warily, as aware of the change as Connor. “I should return to New York. See to Mag–”

“Don’t!” Connor snapped, suddenly angry and weary all at once. _Why did he have to…_ “I will not ask where you have been, or what you were doing, or why you saw fit to hide it from me, but _do not_ lie to my face and expect me to act as though I believe!”

The Templar blinked, his face growing cold. “I won’t, then.” They stared at each other, Assassin and Templar, deeply aware of the insurmountable divide between them, neither wishing to break the silence, both knowing what it would mean when they did. The minutes stretched on.

At last Connor spoke. “You will return to New York and you will _stay_ in New York, as you have been pretending to do this past year. I will not make you travel across the oceans with an infant, but nor will I allow you to wander as you have.”

Cormac nodded slowly, something deeply sorrowful about him. “Our alliance is over?” _He does not want this to end,_ Connor realized. _No more than I do._ Had the old man come to care for Connor, as the Assassin cared for him? Did the Templar not want their odd friendship to end either?

But end it must.

“I do not believe,” Connor said slowly, “we ever truly had an alliance to end. You were using me always, from the beginning.”

“Not always,” the older man demurred. “Sometimes… Sometimes it was real. This… coming _here_ … This was real.”

Connor nodded, accepting the words. “But too often otherwise. And never entirely true.”

“No,” Shay admitted. “Not from me.”

It hurt, the confirmation. But at least the old man was being honest, perhaps for the first time. “I ended the truce with my father,” Connor said quietly, “because I thought he had played me false. I was wrong. Regret has led me to cling to this alliance, long after I should.”

For the first time Connor saw respect in the Templar’s eyes. “I had hoped your guilt would stay you longer,” Shay admitted. He smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. “Seems you grew up when I wasn’t looking. Haytham would be proud. Annoyed, but proud.”

“While you remain in New York, your brothers are safe,” Connor warned. “If I find you outside it…”

“I know.” Shay steered the Morrigan into a small tributary, motioning the crew to drop anchor. He walked over to Connor, leaning on the bulkhead beside the Assassin. “For what it’s worth, I _do_ want what’s best for this Nation.”

“I doubt we would agree on _what_ is best,” Connor replied.

The old man chuckled, but there was no joy in it. “I’m a Templar; you’re an Assassin. When do we ever?”

“You seek control,” Connor said coldly.

“And Assassins don’t?” Shay countered.

Connor shook his head. “We seek freedom, and the right to choose.”

Shay smiled bitterly. “Aye, and you kill those whose choices you disagree with.”

“To ensure the freedom of the people.”

“And if the people, by their own will and choosing, elect a Templar to lead them?”

“If they are tricked –”

“No tricks. An entirely free choice.”

Connor considered. It was a good question. “I cannot know,” he decided. “Not until such a choice is made.”

Shay nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair. More fair than most Assassins I’ve known.”

“You could never reconcile it, could you?” The Assassin asked shrewdly.

“No,” the Templar admitted. “I never could.”

The silence grew again, more companionable than before. _There are no more lies,_ Connor realized. Secrets and plots, yes, but no lies. The deceptions were over and they were enemies again. Somehow, that made things easier. _What does that say about us?_ Connor wondered. _About our war?_ “What will you do,” he asked suddenly, “if you achieve your perfect world?”

Shay looked thoughtfully out at the river. “If we achieve a world of perfect order… I suppose we’d retire. There’d be no more need for us. We’re only guiding it until it gets there.”

“You would not need to control it,” Connor pressed, “to keep it that way?”

Shay shook his head. “A perfect world would keep itself in order, balanced and checked against itself. Perfectly controlled, perfectly ordered.”

“Like your Order?” Connor probed.

The Templar smirked. “Now _that_ would be telling.” They fell silent again, listening to the currents slap against the bow.

“The truce… it isn’t over until Chris and Dobby get back?” Shay finally asked.

“No.” Connor frowned, wondering what the old man was getting at.

“We could take the whaleboat… Go out on the river…”

“And what?” Connor asked blankly. “Fight?”

Shay laughed, startled. “Fish, actually.” There was something about his face, the look in his eyes, that Connor recognized.

“I am not your son,” he said, voice harsher than he’d intended. Hurt flickered across Shay’s face, so quick Connor could almost pretend he’d imagined it. _Is that how you see me? As one of your own?_

“I know," the Templar answered, mouth taut, "It was a foolish thought.”

Connor nodded, walking away. Then he paused, realizing, “where _do_ you keep the gear?”

The look of astonished delight on the Templar’s face was enough to make the long hours in the beating sun worthwhile, even had the companionship not sufficed.


	21. 1786: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Matters in Vincennes did not improve over the following weeks. Instead, they worsened.

Connor startled as Dobby rushed into his room. “Damned Sullivan!” She gasped out.

Connor groaned, laying his head in his palm. “What has he done _now_?” Daniel Sullivan, Connor was certain, had every intention of starting a war. There was a frightening _rage_ in the man, burning everything around him.

“Some warriors caught a man – Donally. They tried to scalp him, but I got him away in time.” Connor nodded, approving. “But Sullivan had already gathered a posse. They’re intent on revenge.”

“We’ll stop them,” Connor said as he rose. “Where did they go?”

“I don’t know,” Dobby admitted. “I was busy getting Donally a doctor when I heard of it. Came straight here as soon as I found one.”

Connor frowned, opening the door and heading out to the street. “Hopefully we can find him quickly.” It shouldn’t be too hard; Sullivan was many things, but quiet was not one of them. A few queries had the two Assassins heading to the French quarter, the townsfolk gasping in awe as the Assassins leaped from building to building, freerunning across Vincennes. They found the French Quarter in disarray, its members talking rapidly in their own tongue.

“Ce mec fou!”

“Ce pauvre garçon!”

“Que faire; que faire!”

“English, please,” Connor said. He could understand French some – Aveline had taught him while they worked together in Franklin – but not when it was spoken so rapidly. “Where is Sullivan?”

“He went that way, le bâtard,” one man said angrily. “Took his men and attacked de Charmant’s place.”

“Thank you,” Connor said, hurrying to the indicated house. A man and woman stood inside clinging to one another. “Il n'a rien fait!” The woman wailed.

“I do not understand,” Connor began.

“Ce n'est pas lui qui a attaqué,” the man tried.

“No,” Connor explained, “I do not speak French.” Well enough to understand the distraught couple, at least.

“Oh.” The man paused, obviously struggling to recall his second tongue. Connor understood; he was accustomed to English now, but he still recalled how hard it had once been to switch from one to the other. “One of the tribesmen was here. Sullivan… he took him.”

Connor frowned. They were too late then. “Did he say where they were going?”

“He said,” the woman paused, sniffing, “he said the widow deserved her due.”

Dobby cursed vividly. “She lives all the way across town!”

“We still have a chance to catch them,” Connor said. They ran. The house came into view and Connor rushed forward, Dobby following behind. A gunshot rang out as he reached the door. _No!_ The Assassin entered the domicile, already knowing what he would see.

A Native man lay dead on the ground, his blood soaking into the wooden floors and staining the skirts of the woman kneeling atop him. The not-widow was scalping the man with sharp, methodical strokes. “Take my husband from me, will you?! I’ll teach you! _I’ll teach you_!”

“He is not dead,” Connor said softly. He knew loss, knew the devastation it could bring. He did not fault the woman; Sullivan, however… “Your husband survived.”

Mistress Donally dropped the knife, eyes wide as she stared at him. “He’s alive? My William’s alive?”

“Yes,” Dobby said coldly. “I got him to safety.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh! God bless you! Thank you! _Thank you!_ ”

“That man,” Connor said sadly, “was innocent.”

The people gathered in the Donallys’ house stared at him. “He’s an enemy,” Sullivan snapped, eyes flinty and unforgiving. “Those are only good dead.”

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

The next day the Americans were ordered to leave the town. _This,_ Connor thought irritably, _will **not** help._ Perhaps it would be for the best in the end; the town was growing increasingly dangerous for the settlers. They were badly outnumbered, and the French were reporting worrisome news from the tribes. The Piankeshaw and Wea were preparing for war.

“We should move the settlers to the fort,” Connor said. “It is not safe here.”

Dobby frowned. “They won’t like it.”

Connor sighed. “I know,” he admitted. “But if we can convince Small…”

Dobby nodded thoughtfully. “He _could_ convince the townsfolk. The French won’t come, though.”

“The French should be fine,” Connor assured her. “The tribes have sworn not to harm them.”

Dobby snorted. “Because things are so clear on the battlefield,” she said sarcastically.

“Then we must see that it does not become one.” They walked toward Small’s home together. The streets of Vincennes were tense, the people walking in clusters, their heads down. The town reeked of fear.

Small motioned them into his home. “Quickly. This town isn’t very safe today.”

“Is it ever?” Dobby asked dryly.

“Not that I’ve seen,” quipped John Filson.

“Filson?” Dobby blinked, startled. “I didn’t expect you here.”

“Where else would I be?” The writer asked irritably. “You saw what happened when I tried to get to Philadelphia.”

Connor nodded, hiding his guilt. Congress could not have afforded the stress of Filson’s message, but the man would be safe now had the Assassins not intervened. “You need to move to the fort.”

Small frowned. “Look, I know things aren’t great, but this –”

“The tribes are preparing for war,” Dobby interrupted. “Over four hundred warriors. You don’t have the numbers for a defense.”

“She’s right,” Filson agreed. “I’ll prepare a letter for General Clark and Governor Henry, but they won’t be able to get us help in time – assuming it even gets through,” he added dourly. Filson had _not_ been happy about the attack on his pirogue.

Small’s face was dark. “You’ve seen this yourself?”

Dobby shook her head, flushing guiltily as she glanced over at Connor. “An… associate.” Connor frowned, suddenly certain he knew who she meant and not particularly pleased by it.

“A trusted one?” Small demanded.

“On this, yes,” Dobby agreed.

The militia commander sighed, defeated. “I’ll gather the men; we’ll have to move fast.”

“Do it,” Connor ordered. “Dobby, we need to talk.” The woman sighed, nodding as she followed Connor to the roof. “Christopher is still here?” The Assassin demanded.

“I asked him to watch the tribes _before_ I knew you’d ended the truce,” Dobby explained. “You _said_ you weren’t going to. I’m not even sure _he_ knows yet.”

Connor frowned. This was a problem he had not anticipated. Dobby had returned to the ship alone, explaining that Christopher had gone to scout the tribes. Shay had left shortly thereafter. Connor had assumed he would let his son know about the resumed hostilities. It was, Connor grudgingly realized, entirely possible the Templar had left his son in the dark, trusting the Assassins not to harm the unaware Hunter. _He uses everyone, manipulates everything,_ the Assassin thought sadly. “I want to talk to him,” Connor said grimly.

Dobby nodded slowly. “He went up the Vermillion river; I’d guess he’s still there.”

“Can you cover the retreat?” Connor asked.

“I can.” Dobby hesitated. “Connor, you know I’m the last person to trust the Templars.”

“I do,” the Assassin agreed.

“I don’t think he’s a bad person,” Dobby said in a rush. “And… I can’t really _blame_ him for hating Assassins,” she admitted.

“I do not know that his father is, either,” Connor said quietly, “but good men too often do ill deeds, particularly when they are as dedicated as he.”

“Yeah…” Dobby sighed. “I really don’t think he knows, though.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Connor promised as he readied to jump. “Make sure the settlers get to the fort.” He flung himself from the roof, landing in a nearby hay bale. Without pause, he vaulted from the straw, beginning to run. It would take time to reach the Vermillion River and Connor did not have much of it.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

Christopher Cormac was _not_ an easy man to find. Connor couldn’t help but be impressed by the younger man’s skill. Cormac had trained his sons – his _Hunters_ – well.

Connor had spent some time researching after Cormac had mentioned them, and what he found had not made him happy. The Hunters were Assassin killers, trained for that purpose. From what little information there was of them, it seemed they were not only trained as Assassins, but functioned in a similar manner, like a twisted version of the Creed. Aveline had been of great help in seeking information; her stepmother’s records had held many more details than Haytham Kenway’s – likely due to the latter intentionally burying any information on Cormac.

Connor frowned. Why _had_ his father gone to such lengths? Shay said it was due to his role as an inquisitor, something he had been unwilling to speak much of, but Connor wondered. A suspicion was growing, one he hoped was wrong. The Assassin sighed, forcing the thoughts aside. It was a concern for another time; now he needed to prevent a war. Idly, he wondered if Aveline was having better luck.

The Louisiana Assassin was working on the problem of Spanish interference; it was rather extensive. Perhaps the strangest thing was the complete lack of Templar involvement: the Spanish government had decided to close the river for entirely selfish reasons. In some ways, it made matters more complicated. With the Templars, the enemy and their goals were clear. Ordinary human greed and ambition were much harder foes to defeat. It was at times like these Connor could understand the draw of the Templar cause. The Assassins' enemies were _wrong_ , but they were _understandable_. The Templars offered easy answers: order, control, an end to uncertainty. Assassins forced their members to confront the questions and embrace hypocrisy and contradiction. It was the harder path, but freedom always was.

_Did you not like the answers?_ Connor wondered, once more turning the question of betrayal over in his mind. He still had no good answers. Perhaps there were none.

He sighed again, scanning the trees. There was nothing in either of his visions. Giving up, he called out, “Christopher. I know you’re there.” Leaves crackled noisily and Connor turned in time to see the Hunter swing from a tree, an odd, hooked blade extending from his wrist. “I have never seen a Hidden Blade like this,” Connor said. He’d known there were variations, of course. His own could pivot, allowing him to use it for skinning game or as an ordinary dagger.

“It’s Ottoman,” Christopher explained. “Their Blades have a hook to extend reach.”

“That is useful,” Connor acknowledged. “Are their other variants?” Achilles had spoken little of the other Brotherhoods; he suspected his Mentor had been angry at their seeming abandonment of the Colonial Assassins. Connor himself had befriended a French Assassin, William de Saint-Prix, who preferred his unique hook weapons to the traditional Hidden Blades.

Christopher looked thoughtfully at his Blade. “The Italians have a poison blade – that one’s standard – and a pistol blade that shoots bullets. Only Master Assassins have one, though. Some Italians use one that shoots darts, or crossbow bolts. The French use the latter; they call it a Phantom Blade. The Chinese Assassins have Footblades – exactly what it sounds. Some British Assassins have begun attaching grappling hooks to their weapons, but it isn’t standard.” He shrugged. “I’m sure there are others, but I don’t know of them. It isn’t something I cared much about.”

Connor nodded. “Why that one?”

“I like to climb,” the Hunter replied, an odd eagerness in his voice, “and exploring. The hook makes it easier.”

“You built it?”

Christopher shook his head. “Da gave it to me. He has something of a collection.” The Hunter smirked cruelly. “I think you can guess the source.”

The Assassin could. It was one of the many things Aveline had found among her stepmother’s paper: records of the Assassin Hunter. No names were given but, now that Connor _knew_ Shay, the identity was clear. Before the Templar had hunted traitors to his new Order, he had hunted his former one. Shay Cormac had been an assassin of _Assassins_ , a role he had both survived, and passed on to his children. “How many Assassins has your father killed?” He asked the younger Hunter now.

“Worried?” Christopher asked unkindly.

“No.” It was true, Connor realized. He did not think Shay intended to kill him. It was the Templar’s mind and manipulations which worried him.

Christopher scowled, not liking the answer. “What did you want, Mentor Kenway?” He asked curtly.

_I wish they would not call me that,_ the Assassin thought irritably. Repeated requests had done nothing, likely because the Templars knew it bothered him. _Except Cormac… he uses my name._ “You have not been in contact with your father.” A statement, not a question. The Hunter would not have revealed what he did if he had.

Christopher answered anyway. “Not since he ordered me to help you prevent a war.”

Connor frowned at the confirmation. “We have ended our alliance.”

The young man stiffened, moving into a defensive stance. “I see.” He looked warily at Connor. “Should I be concerned?”

The Assassin shook his head. “You did not know, and I am grateful for your help. But you should not give it under false pretenses. We can have our own truce, if you wish.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “You want my help, but end the alliance with my father?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Connor sighed. “Your father has been deceiving me.” He watched the Hunter’s face carefully, but it remained closed, revealing nothing. If Christopher had known, Connor could not tell. “I could not be allies with him once I knew. But I have no quarrel with you.”

“ _I_ do,” the Hunter pointed out. “You took my mother from me. If the alliance is over, I’ve no reason to help.”

“You do,” Connor corrected grimly. “Your father ordered you to help me, and he has yet to rescind that order. In fact, he has deliberately chosen to leave you in the dark, so you would have no reason to stop.”

Christopher cursed extensively in Onödowáʼga and another language Connor did not know, but had heard Cormac use from time to time. “Fine,” the Hunter said at last, glowering at the trees. “The tribes plan to attack. I think we can stop them.”

Connor nodded. “How?”

“Bribery,” Christopher said coldly. His anger was nearly palpable. “The tribes want to keep good relations with the French. If the French give them gifts in exchange for standing down, they’ll see their allies value the Americans and stop the attack.”

“A good plan,” Connor agreed. “You will let me know if anything changes here?”

“Until Da sees fit to relieve me,” the Hunter replied bitterly.

_It is ironic,_ Connor thought. In training his children to hunt Assassins, Shay had trained them _as_ Assassins. Semi-independent operatives, perfectly loyal to their mentor – their father – and each other. _Shay is right,_ Connor thought sadly. _It **is** the Creed that makes him so dangerous._ No Templar would think to create a Brotherhood loyal to the Cross – none but the one who had worn the Hood.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

The French were willing to help, much to Connor’s relief. When the tribes assaulted the fort, the French made a show of force and offered gifts to convince them to retreat. It was only a temporary solution, though; another attack was imminent. “We need to treat with them properly,” Major Bosseron, one of the French leaders, explained.

“That is what the convoy is for?” Connor asked.

“Oui,” Bosseron confirmed. “And the flags.” There were five, set up by the rocks near the river: three red and two white. “We should not have to wait long,” the Major added, with some satisfaction.

He was correct, Connor saw. Already the tribesmen were arriving. “Light the pipe!” Bosseron ordered. He took a puff, then handed it to his interpreter, Vaudry. The interpreter passed it on to the tribal emissaries.

Once this preliminary act was done, Bosseron began to speak. “My brothers, I and all Frenchmen whom you see here present are sent on the part of our chief, who has remained in the village to keep quiet the women and children, who are all in tears. It is _you_ who make them weep.” The accusation was no less harsh for the even tone in which it was delivered. “He asks you what you mean to do by coming in such great numbers. Stop here and do not come at all around our village.” The Major paused, allowing the words to sink in. “You will see him, himself. You will hear him speak. Remember that the French do not like for blood to be shed on these lands.”

It was a fine speech, but Connor feared the tribes were too angry to accept. He watched with concern as the emissaries spoke amongst themselves. Even before they responded, the Assassin knew he had been correct. The tribes were unwilling to end their feud with the Americans, even for the French. However, they were willing to speak with Le Grasse, the French magistrate.

Connor’s respect for the French settlers had risen greatly over the past month. It seemed they were the only ones trying to keep the peace in Kentucky. Le Grasse proved this again by immediately supplying the tribesmen with provisions. “Please, brothers. Take these and warn your fellows not to attack. The village is on high alert and we do not wish to see blood spilled.” The magistrate continued speaking as Connor scanned the streets, ensuring no one disrupted the delicate negotiations.

A sudden flash of light caught his eye, followed by another. Wary, Connor tracked the beams to their source. Christopher stood on nearby rooftop, using a dagger to reflect the light. Connor frowned, silently leaving the room and making his way to the Hunter. “You have news?”

The Templar’s face was dark with suppressed rage. “A problem,” he corrected. “Some fool Americans – I don’t know who, but not from here – decided to attack an _allied_ tribe.”

Connor growled in frustration. What was wrong with these settlers?! But this act was not even caused by them, so who? It hardly mattered right now. “Do they know?”

Christopher shook his head. “Not yet.”

Connor sighed. “Then we make sure they don’t.” The Hunter nodded. “But do _not_ kill them,” Connor added. “We are delaying the message only.”

The Assassin freeran alongside the Hunter, a day’s journey covered in hours. Christopher led him directly to the battlefield. “I think they were American army,” the Templar said. “Or Virginian. Probably sent to loot under cover of ‘helping’.”

“Agreed.” Connor shook his head, angry at the Americans foolishness. “We need to stop _them,_ as well as the messengers.”

“I can do it,” the younger man said eagerly, his eyes shining with rage. “These are not our people, but they are as native to these lands as we Haudenosaunee to New York. I would see their killers pay.”

Connor frowned. He could understand the sentiment well; a few years ago he would have been the one rushing to enact revenge. He still _desired_ it, but the villagers were innocent of _this_ crime and should not pay the price for it. He would not stop the Hunter, but he would stop the messengers. “Go then,” Connor said, “but be careful.”

“ _I_ am not about to start a war.” Christopher’s voice was harsh, but for once the ever-present anger was not aimed at the Assassins. “Despite these fools’ insistence on instigating one.”

Connor watched as the younger man ran off after the attackers. He feared the Hunter was right; it became harder to prevent a war with every passing day. It seemed even the combined efforts of Assassins and Templars would not be enough in the face of the idiocy of the American settlers, but the Assassin would try regardless. He activated his Eagle Vision, following the tracks of the fleeing warriors, watching for the ones which veered off. One set did so, then split again and again. Connor cursed. It was a pity he had had to leave Dobby behind, but _someone_ needed to stay at the fort. The settlers were liable to do something foolish otherwise. He would just have to move quickly.

He leaped from tree to tree, following the first trail. Seeing the warrior, Connor drew his blowpipe and sent a dart into the man’s carotid. He tied the man quickly, leaving him safely in a tree. Done, he hurried after the second. Another dart saw the messenger fall.

The Assassin ran on.

By the time he caught up to the last messenger, Connor was exhausted and out of darts. Behind him were a dozen unconscious men, tied-up in the trees. Wearily, the Assassin crept along a branch over the last man’s head. He slammed down, a quick blow to the temples knocking the startled man out. He tied him up, relieved. It was done; the tribes would not learn of this attack until the negotiations were over.

Connor sighed, leaving to search for Christopher. He found the Hunter near the American camp. It was in complete disarray, the soldiers shooting wildly at one another. “Berserk grenade,” Christopher said smugly, watching them. “Let them shoot their _own,_ instead of _ours_.”

Looking over the camp, Connor found no comfort in the Hunter’s vengeance. The Miami were dead, and more dead would not revive them. “Come,” he said. “Let us see if Vincennes has made peace.”

“If they have,” Christopher laughed harshly, “it will not last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> William Donally: Farmer in Vincennes
> 
> George Rogers Clark: Conqueror of the Northwest. One of the Generals in the Revolution, his greatest achievements occurred before he was thirty.
> 
> Vermillion River: A river near Vincennes
> 
> William de Saint-Prix: French Assassin. He's remembered fondly by both Orders, something that doesn't often.
> 
> Onödowáʼga: The Seneca language.
> 
> Irish Gaelic: Shay curses in this sometimes
> 
> Major Bosseron: A French Major living in Vincennes
> 
> Vaudry: Bosseron's interpreter
> 
> Le Grasse: The town magistrate
> 
> AUthor's Note:  
> Most of the information in this chapter comes from Letters from the Wabash, a series of letters written during this period (mostly by Filson.) The speech Bosseron gives is quoted directly from the letters.


	22. 1786: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

General George Rogers Clark was not a new face to the people of Vincennes, Connor knew. He had been there before, during the American Revolution. Clark had been the one to capture the town during that war. The Conqueror of the Northwest, he was known. In some ways the problems now were his fault, Connor mused; the occupation of Kentucky by the Americans had played a role in the British decision to cede the land – land which did _not_ belong to the Crown – to the Americans.

And now, Clark was returning.

“He knows this land,” Christopher said, “but he relies on good intelligence. I can make sure he doesn’t get it.”

“He will listen to you?” Connor asked.

“I’ve worked with him before, during the Revolution,” the Hunter explained.

“So, he trusts you,” Dobby agreed, smiling at him. “That’s definitely a starting point.”

Connor frowned, watching the younger man. “Your father has not sent new instructions?”

“Not since yesterday, no,” Christopher replied dryly.

The Assassin nodded. “But you are in contact.”

“I send him reports,” was the cold reply.

Connor nodded again. He was becoming increasingly suspicious – not of Christopher, who remained blue to his sight – but of the Hunter’s father. While it was clear Cormac wished to avoid a war, the Assassin would have been much happier if he was not increasingly certain the Templar had caused this mess to begin with. “He did not realize how bad things had become,” Connor mused aloud. “Did he?”

“I don’t believe so,” Christopher admitted, “or he would have sent me earlier.”

“Did he start it?” Dobby asked bluntly.

“I wouldn’t tell you if he had,” the Hunter answered coolly, “or if he hadn’t. You can stop asking; I cannot reveal what I do not know.”

“He keeps you in the dark,” Dobby accused.

Christopher shrugged, unbothered. “And _he_ ,” the Hunter pointed at Connor, “tells you everything? I know Achilles kept his secrets close. I am told what I _need_ to know.”

It _was_ a fair point, Connor admitted, if only to himself. Wise as well. Cormac had no need to worry over accidental revelations if the son knew nothing of the father’s plots. It did not stop the two Assassins from trying, of course, on the off-chance Christopher unwittingly knew something. _Like those Blade designs_ , Connor thought. If his Brotherhood could recreate them… It was Connor’s reason for pressing, at least. He suspected Dobby had others. He would have to talk with her about those soon, he knew. It was liable to be awkward for both of them.

“Infiltrate Clark’s camp,” the Assassin ordered now. “Return after.”

Christopher nodded as he stood up. “Anything else?”

Connor shook his head. “We need to know what forces Clark has before we can decide on a plan.”

“Wise,” the Hunter agreed. “I’ll let you know what I find.” He leaped from the rooftop, vanishing around a corner.

“He listens well,” Dobby said. She sounded amused, but there was an unhappy note to it.

“I do not think he will turn,” Connor said slowly, “even were his family not Templars. Even had his mother not fallen to Assassins.”

“I know,” Dobby said defensively. Connor frowned, waiting. She sighed. “It’s just… he’s a good kid. Too good for the Templars.”

Connor looked sadly out at the horizon. “The Brotherhood lost a great deal when we lost his father.”

“It’s easy to forget,” Dobby said, “seeing Cormac now, that he was once an Assassin.”

“No,” Connor disagreed. “The opposite. The Creed has shaped the Hunters, as it has their father. And Cormac cannot be expected to act as a Templar; he still _thinks_ too much like an Assassin, for all his devotion is to our enemies.”

“You’re right,” Dobby admitted. “I just wish…”

“I know.”

“He’d make a remarkable Assassin.”

“Yes,” Connor agreed sadly. “They all would.”

* * *

“Clark’s men are draftees,” Christopher explained. “They don’t want to be here.”

“If we give them cause,” Connor suggested, “will they abandon him?”

“Quite possibly,” the Hunter agreed.

“Any ideas?” Dobby asked.

Connor nodded. “Their supply lines are stretched thin. If we disrupt them, the men will be forced to ration. Hungry men are fools.”

“We could wait for them to start getting desperate,” Dobby said thoughtfully, “then set off some of that panic gas.”

Christopher frowned. “This will ruin Clark’s reputation,” he said sourly. “It’s a shame; he is not a bad man.”

Connor agreed with the Hunter, but… “We cannot allow a war.”

“No,” the younger man agreed. “But it is still a pity.”

They set out the next morning. It was only just September, but the air was already showing signs of the coming cold. “We will strike three depots,” Connor decided. “One each. Dobby, you will take the central one; Christopher, you will take the farthest. I will destroy the depot nearest the main encampment. We reconvene here, at midnight.”

“Understood, Mentor Kenway.” The Hunter inclined his head, before taking to the trees.

“Good luck, Connor,” Dobby called over her shoulder, already freerunning toward her target.

Connor smiled, hurrying toward his own objective. The three of them had become a surprisingly effective team over the summer; he would be sorry to lose Christopher when Cormac inevitably recalled him. Dobby was right; the Hunter could have been a fine Assassin.

The small supply depot was lightly guarded. It was clear Clark did not expect an assault from behind. It would be easy enough to destroy, unlike the heavily-armed Spanish depots in Franklin. Connor frowned, recalling the near-disastrous first assault. Cormac’s injury had been unexpected. In hindsight, even suspicious. Connor _knew_ how skilled the Templar was; could he _really_ have been caught unawares? _Everyone makes mistakes,_ the Assassin reminded himself. Still, he wondered. Was Cormac so devoted to his cause he would deliberately injure himself to ensure it? Unfortunately, Connor was fairly certain the answer was ‘yes’.

The Assassin slipped inside the depot, dodging the unwary sentries. Christopher was right; these men did _not_ want to be here. Their slovenly conduct was an obvious sign of their disinterest in the affair. It would not take much to encourage their desertion. Discouraging their banditry, though…

The Assassin carefully set a small explosive. He could destroy the supplies now, if he wished. _Or I could see what there is to learn._ Decided, he crouched behind a bush, listening to the men talk. “Don’t see why we need to be here. I’d much rather be home.”

“Well, someone’s got to supply Clark.”

“That drunkard? Ha! We all know Logan’s doing the real work.” Connor frowned. _Logan?_ The men continued to speak.

“Clark’s no drunk! He’s a genius. Divide and conquer, right?”

“Ha! Logan’ll get the glory, Clark’ll get the credit, and what’ll we get? Nothing!”

“Wish _I’d_ gone with Logan. Way better than guarding depots and playing peace officer. Those settlers want to be here? I say that’s on them!”

Connor had heard enough. Cocking his pistol, he fired, setting off the explosive. The guards cried out in panicked dismay, running for water. The Assassin left them scrambling behind as he escaped the depot.

Clark had split his forces, likely before he had even set out. A wise plan indeed, and one the Assassin had almost missed. Whoever this Logan was, Connor had to find him and his orders. He paused briefly by the rendezvous, leaving a quick not for Dobby and Christopher.

**_There is a second force led by a man named Logan. I am going to scout. If I do not return by dawn, continue without me._ **

**_Connor_ **

The Assassin considered as he attached the note to a convenient tree. Clark’s forces intended to move up the Wabash river. If this was a feint, and Logan the true assault, as the guardsmen had thought, the second force would most likely progress along the Little Miami and Mad rivers. The tribes would send their warriors to defend against Clark’s force, while Logan destroyed their homes from behind. Even with Clark’s forces in disarray, the plan had a good chance of succeeding. Connor could only hope he was in time to prevent it.

He freeran across the wilds of Kentucky Territory, looking for signs of Logan and his men. The sun had long since set when Connor saw the fires of the encampment at last. Unlike the depots, and even Clark’s main encampment, this bivouac was entirely orderly. Sentries stood at regular points, focused and attentive. _We will not be able to dissuade these,_ Connor realized. Logan’s troops were of an entirely different caliber than Clark’s. _Those men were right,_ Connor acknowledged. **_This_** _is the main attack._ Of course, the best of the troops were here. The Assassin watched carefully, waiting. Eventually, one of the sentries turned his head, sneezing loudly. By the time he recovered a moment later, Connor was through. He activated his Eagle Vision, seeking Logan’s tent. The dispatches from Clark might give him some ideas of how to stop _this_ force, preferably without killing the men.

The Assassin scanned the grounds, looking for a golden glow. Finding it, he _marked_ the tent, releasing his Vision. Moving carefully through the shadows, Connor slipped inside the empty command tent. The missives were there, glowing golden. Oddly enough, a small satchel did so as well. Connor’s eyes narrowed as he lifted it. A familiar cross had been impressed on the leather.

“Put it down.”

Connor stiffened, glancing back over his shoulder. There was a man standing there, with thick, wavy black hair and dark eyes. He held a pistol on the Assassin, firm and unwavering. On his hand was a ring Connor knew well. “Logan.”

“Mentor Kenway,” Logan replied coldly. “Put it down.”

The Assassin made a quick decision. “Here.” He threw the satchel at Logan. The man cursed, instinctively trying to catch it. Connor was on him in a heartbeat, Hidden Blade stabbing down. Logan cursed again, deflecting the Blade with one of his own. Connor’s eyes widened. _Of course!_ He chided himself. _Why would Cormac only train his **children**_?

He didn’t have time to consider the matter further. Logan used the Assassin’s momentary surprise to roll away, discharging his firearm. Connor dodged, realizing a moment too late the true intention.

“Men!” Logan shouted. _“Assassin!”_

Cursing, Connor snatched up the fallen satchel, running from the tent. He could not fight the entire platoon; nor did he want to. Logan was a Templar, but his men were _not_. Besides, wiping out the platoon would undoubtedly start the very war the Assassin hoped to avoid. Logan would have to wait. The Assassin leapt across the tent-tops, heading for the nearby river. He dived deep, listening as the troops’ cries were warped by the water. Strong, quick, strokes pulled him along the bottom, the current to carrying him far from the bivouac, until he finally emerged far down on the opposing shore.

The satchel remained sealed, Connor noted with satisfaction. Carefully, he opened it. There were two letters inside, sealed with the Templar Cross. One of the seals had been broken; the other remained intact. _Interesting._ He would read the opened one first.

_Master Logan,_

_Matters have progressed beyond what we anticipated; as such, I am rescinding your original instructions. Your primary objective is now to prevent matters in Kentucky from escalating to war. Negotiate with Chief Moluntha of the Shawnee; the Grandmaster in Canada has sent word that he has allied himself with our cause. I would be grateful if you could find some means of entertaining Mentor Kenway further, but not at the cost of a war._

_Yours,_

_The Grandmaster of the American Rite_

Connor scowled, some part of him aching deeply. The American Rite had a new Grandmaster, it seemed… and there was another in Canada. He had suspected the former, and his possible identity, but he had not thought there were two. Taking down one would not be enough; whatever remained of the Rite would rally about the other.

_This is not Shay’s handwriting,_ Connor noted distractedly. It _might_ not be the cunning Templar. He hoped it wasn’t, but it was far too likely. Shay Cormac had known Haytham well, had known his Inner Circle well. It did not take much to guess he had been part of it. _And Father tried to hide his very existence._ Shay could easily have claimed the title… but had he? At least Connor knew Logan would be working toward peace. The Assassins could leave the man be for now; he had a better chance of achieving peace than they, if what this letter said of Moluntha was true. The Shawnee chief had great influence. If matters changed the Assassins would remove Logan then.

The irony was the letter confirmed what Connor had suspected. The Templars _were_ responsible for the trouble here. _Should I be glad they’re trying to fix it now?_ Connor thought wryly as he opened the second, sealed, letter. It was shorter, the handwriting familiar.

_Chris,_

_Keep working with Connor, and help Benjamin too, if you can. Don’t bother wasting time trying to recruit the Assassin girl. I’m sorry, lad, but it won’t work. She’s loyal to her cause. Enjoy your time with her for so long as you have it but be ready for its end. You can always talk to me._

_Da_

Connor snorted, amusement briefly pushing aside his bleak thoughts. Affection and recruitment attempts went both ways, it seemed. It would have been funny, were the two not doomed to tragedy.

There was _some_ comfort to be had in the second letter: both style and handwriting varied from the first. _But the letters Shay has sent me resemble the first in style,_ Connor acknowledged unhappily. _And the letter could have been dictated to a secretary._ Many people used them, after all. And a Grandmaster would have many duties which could necessitate one. _I need to speak to him_ , Connor decided. _I need to know._ If nothing else, the Templar would know who the Grandmaster was, assuming it was not the man himself.

He would have to return to Vincennes first. Connor needed to give Dobby instructions, and he would need to speak with Christopher. There was no reason to keep Cormac’s letter from the Hunter; Christopher was being ordered to work _with_ the Assassins, after all. In a situation this fraught, they could use the younger man’s help. And after…

Connor frowned. Stephane had sent word from New York, claiming he had seen Cormac. Connor found it unlikely. But where… The answer came in a sudden strike. _The Convention!_ Several prominent politicians had arranged to meet in Annapolis to discuss interstate trade agreements. Connor had not thought much of it, focused as he was on Franklin and Vincennes, but… Shay’s injury in Franklin had put him at Mt. Vernon during a similar conference. _And if he was at **that** one,_ Connor determined grimly, _he will be at this one._

Grandmaster or no, Shay Cormac was too much of a meddler to do otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Benjamin Logan: Templar and Hunter, George Rogers Clark's second in command. Responsible for Logan's Raid, which should happen soon. Also kind of cute, if his portrait is anything to go by.
> 
> Moluntha: Shawnee Chief, allied with the US. He was killed by McGrary, starting the Northwest Indian War.


	23. 1786: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

The conversation with Christopher was not going well, Connor concluded ruefully.

“I am no traitor.”

“I realize.” Connor sighed internally. “I am not asking you to betray your Order.”

“You will not have the Grandmasters’ names from me.” Christopher’s face was blank, betraying nothing.

“You could have told us there _was_ one,” Dobby said angrily. She was hurt, Connor knew.

“I didn’t think I needed to,” the Hunter scoffed. “The Black Cross’ primary duty is to keep watch over the Masters of the Rites; he would not be here if there wasn’t one.”

“Then your father is _not_ Grandmaster?” Connor asked, oddly relieved. He _liked_ the old man; for all that Shay had played him false, there had been nothing personal in it.

The Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “I will not tell you anything of the Grandmasters identities, not even to deny you a single suspect.”

“Not even to clear your father’s name?” Dobby demanded.

For a brief moment grief shone in the Hunter’s eyes, before they grew cold again. “No.” They got nothing more out of Christopher.

“His loyalty is commendable,” Connor noted later.

“Frustrating, more like,” Dobby snapped back. Clearly, she was still upset.

Connor sighed. “At least we he will continue to aid us here.”

“And Logan,” Dobby pointed out, “with whatever _he’s_ up to. At least until Cormac says different.”

Connor frowned pensively. “The Templars want war as little as we. Given the situation… I want you to work with them," he decided. “But be watchful. If their goals should change…”

Dobby’s eyes narrowed. “Me. Not you?”

“I need to find Cormac,” Connor explained. “He is far closer to the center of this than his son.”

“Are you going to kill him?” His fellow Assassin demanded.

Connor hesitated, turning the question over in his mind. “If I must,” he said at last.

“He’s not your father,” Dobby reminded him.

“I am aware. And I killed my father, in the end.” Something he still regretted.

“Only because he forced your hand. What if Cormac never does?” She shook her head. “Admit it, Connor. You don’t want to kill him. He reminds you too much of Haytham.”

“I think,” Connor said softly, “he is the last person alive who _knew_ him. To kill him…”

Dobby’s glare softened, and her eyes were sad when she spoke. “Haytham is dead, Connor. Whether Cormac lives or dies… it doesn’t change that.”

She was right, Connor knew, but wrong too. The Assassin had never truly known his father. He carried Haytham’s blood, some features, some abilities, but not the man himself. Shay Cormac bore no Kenway blood, but Connor could see his father in the man’s every word and action, even many of his mannerisms. A piece of Haytham Kenway lived on in Shay Cormac and Connor found he was unwilling to snuff it out. If it came to it, if his hand was forced – as it had been before – the Assassin knew he would. But if it was his choice… “I will speak to Shay,” Connor said firmly, “and decide then.”

* * *

He was on his way through Virginia when Connor first heard of the trouble in Massachusetts. “I’m sorry,” he asked the newsboy. “What did you say?”

“There’s a rebellion in Massachusetts,” the boy cheerfully informed him. “Read all about it in the Gazette!”

“Here.” Connor handed the boy some coins, taking a paper. The headline jumped out at him immediately.

**Rebellion in Massachusetts!**

**Shays’ Rebels Vow to Shut the Courts!**

Connor’s face darkened. It seemed he had more than a _few_ things to ask Shay Cormac. But in light of this news, where would he _find_ the man? It was clear Cormac was involved in Massachusetts. Most Templars preferred to work from above, through government and positions of power. Populist uprisings were more often aided by Assassins – and the man who betrayed them, it seemed. The Templars _were_ involved, Connor was certain. At least now he knew why they wanted him in the Northwest Territories. _Shay must have come from Massachusetts,_ he realized, _when I called on the Morrigan this summer._ The Templar could very well have returned after.

Connor flipped through the paper, seeking answers. He found one. _Where Cormac is does not matter,_ the Assassin realized as he read on.

**New Jersey Empowers Delegates**

**New Jersey has ordered its delegates to consider how far a uniform system in their commercial regulations and other important matters, might be necessary to the common interest and permanent harmony of the several States.**

New Jersey had given its delegates the power to question the whole of the Union government. Annapolis was supposed to be a trade conference, but what happened there could shape the Nation. _Cormac said he wanted a stronger government,_ Connor abruptly recalled. Under Templar influence, the conference would become an instrument to reinterpret the Articles of Confederation, centralizing power so it would be easier to control. Massachusetts would have to wait; the Assassin needed to be _there._

_The worst part_ , Connor admitted, as he galloped toward Maryland, _is that Shay is not **wrong.**_ The Articles needed to be fixed – that much was obvious – but not by bringing the Nation under Templar control.

_The thing you **must** remember about Shay Cormac_, Achilles had written, _is that he was right. He was wrong, but he was right._ Connor had not understood then, reading his mentor’s message, and looking at the embroidery of the boy who had once been an Assassin.

Now he did.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

Connor arrived in Annapolis on the thirteenth of September and immediately found himself at a loss. The Convention had first met on the eleventh and he had little time left to influence the delegates – if influence them he could. Politics was not a game the Assassin had played often. _Which will have to change_ , he realized. He could not allow the Templars to control that arena.

But that was a matter for the future. The problem now was that Connor’s allies were absent from the delegations. The Massachusetts delegation had failed to arrive, perhaps due to the Rebellion or travel conditions. Connor suspected Templar interference, but had no evidence of it. Even _Washington_ would be a blessing; he knew Connor, and trusted him, and would have been willing to introduce the Assassin to his fellow delegates. Virginia _had_ sent a delegation but, respecting Washington’s desire to be a private citizen, had not bothered him to come. Connor was glad of the Apple’s effect on Washington, but it _could_ be inconvenient.

_At least they cannot act without the other States,_ Connor consoled himself. The Convention could only recommend a course, not command it. Knowing what he did now, Connor would use the delay between Annapolis and Congress to mitigate whatever ‘reforms’ the Templars intended. The Assassin’s enemies had tipped their hand too early. Connor could only hope ‘too early’ was not already ‘too late.’ _I can begin here_ , he decided, _with these delegates._ James Madison had been the one to call for a convention; assuming the man was only under Templar influence, Connor might be able to sway him.

There would be others, later. The influential British Assassin, Thomas Paine, could be encouraged to write against a too strong government. _Convincing him that **some** government is necessary may be harder, _Connor acknowledged wryly _._ The man had a distinctly anarchical streak. Governor Patrick Henry was another man with such distrust; Connor was fairly certain the man would be an ally. And, rebellion aside, Massachusetts was the Assassin stronghold. If the State would stand against any reforms too radical… which was likely why the Templars had the State in revolt.

A sudden instinct had Connor glancing up. A bald eagle soared high above. “Brigid,” he said, eyes narrowing. So his initial assumption had been correct – Cormac _was_ in Annapolis, ensuring the delegation recommended his Order’s reforms. Scowling, Connor traced the eagle’s path across the sky. _If I were Cormac,_ he wondered, _where would I choose to stay?_ In Virginia Cormac had chosen to stay with Washington at Mt. Vernon. In New York, before he reclaimed his land, Cormac had been a guest of James Duane, the City’s mayor. _He stays where there is power,_ Connor realized. _Power he can use._ The delegates were sleeping – and meeting – at Mann’s Tavern, where Connor had been headed. Shay Cormac _would_ be rooming there.

He arrived quickly and scanned the area. A window near the back of the Tavern glowed golden in his sight. The Assassin paused for a moment to ensure no one was watching, then launched himself up the wall and through the window. Shay Cormac sat on the bed, casually buttoning his shirt. His graying hair hung loose about his shoulders, the damp strands staining the fabric. “A moment Mentor Kenway.” Connor stared, thrown by the man’s relaxed demeanor. Cormac glanced up, his eyes dancing with suppressed mirth. “You keep barging in on people unexpected; you can’t assume they’ll be ready for you.”

Connor scowled. “You knew I was coming.”

Cormac smirked, reaching up to tie his hair back. “Be glad I did, lad, or you’d be seeing more of me than you might wish.”

Connor glared, hating the heat rising in his cheeks. Whatever he had expected it was not... this... that... “That’s not… How…” Adding quickly, “…did you know?”

The old man chuckled. “Sorry, lad, but I have to keep some secrets.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed, his composure returning. He was here for a _reason_ ; he could not let the Templar distract him. “Like this: _Grandmaster._ ”

“Oh, that’s no secret,” Shay said unconcernedly. Connor stiffened. _Did he just–_ “There would be little point in my returning here if there wasn’t one,” the Templar continued. “An Inquisitor’s duty is to keep watch over the Rite Masters.”

Connor frowned. Christopher had said something suspiciously similar. “That is _not_ what I meant.” Cormac shot him a perplexed look. “Are _you_ Grandmaster?”

The older man blinked, then burst into laughter. Connor folded his arms, waiting for the other man’s mirth to fade. “Not that I’m not flattered,” Shay grinned, “but why would you think that?”

“You have great authority among the Templars,” Connor pointed out. “It seems reasonable.”

“Aye, I suppose,” Shay admitted, “when you put it that way. I answer to… an authority above the Rites.”

“The Inner Sanctum.”

“I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of any such thing.”

“Yes,” Connor said irritably. “I know.” Never mind the Templar had claimed to answer to them on Barbados; Connor had never gotten him to reveal more. “But you _were_ a member of my father’s Inner Circle.”

“For a time,” Shay acknowledged. “Not after '77.”

“But you _were._ And with the others dead…”

“Aye,” the Templar agreed, “but Haytham was no fool, nor Charles, for all he could act it. I’m the last person who ought to be chosen; you know _why_.”

Cormac was right; Connor did. “In the eyes of your Order, you will always be an Assassin.” Barlow had said as much when he died, and Shay had said the same more than once. Even Nathanial had referred to the man as ‘the Templar’s Assassin’.

Shay inclined his head. “You’ve said it yourself: there is much of the Creed left in me. I don’t _think_ like most Templars.”

“Yes,” Connor said dryly. “Most Templars do not start populist revolts.”

Shay snorted. “Mentor Kenway, do you _really_ think I’d be so foolish as to name a revolt I’d begun after myself?”

“No,” Connor conceded. “But I _do_ think you are responsible.”

“I’d hardly admit it if I _was_.”

The Assassin nodded. It was as close to confirmation as he would get. “What do you hope to achieve at this conference?”

“Better government,” Shay replied, confirming Connor’s fears, “but I’ll settle for a decent trade policy.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “ _Now_ you are lying.” It was the first time since the conversation had begun.

Cormac tilted his head thoughtfully. “On the second count,” he said finally. “Not the first.” He stood up, pulling on his coat and tying the red sash with white crosses about his waist. The Templar placed a white, triangular hat on his head, tilting it forward until it shadowed his eyes, before walking toward Connor. The Assassin tensed, but the Templar merely lifted his arms, exposing his wrists. They were bare.

“What?” Connor demanded.

“I’m done talking,” the older man said calmly, “and it _is_ why you’re here. I suppose I should thank you for allowing me my dignity. And as final conversations go,” he smiled briefly, “this was hardly the worst I’ve had. Usually been on the other side of them, though.” His hair was tied low, hanging straight from the damp, Connor suddenly realized, and tied with a red band. With a hat on his head, Shay Cormac had never looked more like Haytham, and they both knew it.

“You are playing me,” Connor said, knowing it didn’t matter. “You do not have to; if I was going to kill you, I would have.”

“Ah.” Shay blinked, relief flickering across his face. “Thank you?”

“You thought I would kill you?” Connor asked, surprised.

The Templar nodded, wary now. He seemed more ill at ease now than he had the entire time before. **“** Why else would you be here?”

It was a good question, and one Connor had no intention of answering. “To see you home, old man,” the Assassin replied instead. “You seem to have taken a _very_ wrong turn.” Shay blinked, still looking perplexed. Connor smirked. It wasn’t often _he_ got to tease the Templar. “Maryland is _not_ on the way to New York.”

Shay stared at him blankly, then burst into laughter. There was a raw, hysterical edge to it, surprising Connor. _He really **did** expect to die today,_ Connor realized to his surprise. He had not expected that. Why would the Templar simply accept his death without fighting back? The older man's laughter slowly petered out as he began to calm. The Assassin frowned thoughtfully at the Templar. _Why were you so willing to let me kill you?_ He wondered but did not ask.

Shay smiled at him, the first true one since Connor had entered the room. “Well,” he said, relief laying heavy on his words, “I suppose I _am_ getting old.”

“Yes,” Connor replied thoughtfully. “You are.”

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

“I hear you met Madison,” Shay said casually the next morning.

“I told him I was a friend of yours,” Connor said dryly. It had been an educated guess, and it had worked. “Whatever did you do to make him like you so much?”

“Saved his life,” Shay replied, “or near enough. He’s a good man – mostly.”

“Not a Templar?” Connor pressed.

Shay shook his head. “I’d advise you not to recruit him either. He’s better ignorant. We who know the truth… It shapes us, Templar and Assassin both. Makes us see the world a certain way. We _know_ mankind was created as slaves to another race; Madison… James believes, deeply and truly, men were born to be free. There is value in knowing someone who holds such as a fundamental truth.”

It was a very odd thought for a Templar. “And yet he holds men bound,” Connor noted.

“Yes,” Shay agreed. “Ironic isn’t it? So many who fight to be free cannot seem to find it in themselves to free others.” He was wearing his hair the same as he had yesterday, Connor suddenly noticed, the hat held by the Templar’s side. The Assassin frowned, anger flashing through him.

“I told you; I am not going to kill you. You need not play on my guilt.” The Templar shot him a bewildered look. “Your hair.”

“What of it?” Cormac asked blankly.

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “You tie it as my father did.”

“I do?” Shay put his hand to the tail, realization dawning. “I… I suppose I am. I hadn’t realized… It was always shorter before."

“It was not intentional?” Connor asked skeptically.

The Templar shook his head. “It was, but not… I let it grow, and tied it low, when I started working with politicians. Blending, of a different sort. It… I never thought…” He sighed heavily, an old grief in his eyes. “I can always tie it high again if –”

“It is alright,” Connor cut him off. “I thought you were playing me again.”

“Not with this,” the old man said.

Connor’s lips twitched. “But you _are_ playing me.”

“Does it count if you know?” They smiled at one another, the old joke a reminder of their comradery. But it could not last.

“I want you to leave the United States,” Connor said, as their ship embarked. “If you leave as soon as we reach New York, you should be able to avoid the winter storms.”

Shay nodded. “And if I do not?”

“I will have to kill you,” Connor admitted quietly. “I cannot risk allowing you to interfere any longer.”

The Templar nodded, acknowledging the truth. “You should do it now,” he warned, “else I’ll make certain you don’t get another chance.”

“I promised you a safe return to New York,” Connor reminded him. “I will not go back on it – though I _should_ have thought to forbid detours.”

“You’re a good man,” Shay said thoughtfully. “I was too, once.”

“Not anymore?”

The Templar laughed, but there was no joy in it. “No. Not for a very long time now. You though… You still are. Stay that way. Don’t let this war turn you bitter.”

“Like it did you?”

“Me,” Shay confirmed. “And your Da, and Achilles, and far too many others.” He fell silent, watching the seas. Connor stood beside him.

“It is hard,” the Assassin said at last, “to remain a good man when you are fighting a war with no hope of an end.”

“I wish,” Shay said, voice barely above a whisper, “I was still the man who could believe in peace. That man… He was a fool, but a good one.”

“Perhaps not such a fool,” Connor suggested, wondering.

“No,” Shay admitted. “But he’s dead all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Annapolis Convention: Supposed convention on trade. Became a Convention on creating a better government instead. Not bad work, honestly.
> 
> Shays' Rebellion: Populist uprising in Massachusetts. Sometimes called the last battle of the Revolution. Probably named for Daniel Shays... like 98% sure.
> 
> Thomas Paine: Author of Common Sense and the American Crisis, among others. An advocate of deism, he got into quite a bit of trouble with the Church. He was taken prisoner by the French Templars, after making an enemy of the French Brotherhood by helping the Templar led Revolutionaries... which may be why he survived to be freed, actually. He would return to the American Brotherhood, where he remained until his death.
> 
> James Dwayne: New York mayor and Templar sympathizer. He helped found the New York manumission society alongside Master Templar John Jay. He also gave the money provided for entertainment at his inauguration to charity. And today's NYC mayor spends 2,000,000 on his wife's publicist...


	24. 1786: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Connor received the news in New York, a little while after he said his farewells to Shay. The Annapolis Convention had returned with its recommendations the same day Assassin and Templar had embarked for New York. Hamilton had couched the matter in flowery language, but Connor could see the intent hidden amidst the innocuous seeming lines:

‘ **Under this impression, Your Commissioners, with the most respectful deference, beg leave to suggest their unanimous conviction that it may essentially tend to advance the interests of the union if the States, by whom they have been respectively delegated, would themselves concur, and use their endeavors to procure the concurrence of the other States, in the appointment of Commissioners, to meet at Philadelphia on the second Monday in May next, to take into consideration the situation of the United States, to devise such further provisions as shall appear to them necessary to render the constitution of the Federal Government adequate to the exigencies of the Union; and to report such an Act for that purpose to the United States in Congress assembled, as when agreed to, by them, and afterwards confirmed by the Legislatures of every State, will effectually provide for the same.’**

“What does it mean?” Jamie asked. Connor had had the Assassin keeping an eye on Cormac’s family; Cormac himself, of course, was elsewhere. “This has nothing to do with trade, and they haven’t recommended any particular reforms.”

“The Templars do not wish to revise the government,” Connor answered, shock ringing through him as he scanned the missive again. “They mean to create a _new_ one.” He read it through a third time, knowing the truth. Not _the_ Templars; _one_ Templar _._ A Templar who thought from _outside_ the system; a Templar who thought too much like an Assassin still.

“You lost him,” Connor said without looking up, as Stephane returned. The French Assassin nodded, shamefaced. “It is alright; he is remarkably good at blending.” The _one_ part of the Creed the Templar had embraced wholeheartedly. “I want you to go to Virginia and reach out to Governor Henry. Jamie and I will return to Massachusetts; we have to stop the rebellion if we’re to have any chance of preventing _this_ ,” he waved the recommendations, “from going the Templars way. Fear is _their_ weapon.”

“What about Cormac?” Stephane asked thoughtfully. “We can’t just allow him to wander about.”

“ _Grandmaster_ Cormac will be with his rebels,” Connor said coldly. “And this time I _cannot_ let him walk away.” He should not have let the Grandmaster guilt him into doing so in Maryland.

* * *

The Grandmaster had left a letter. Somehow, Connor was not especially surprised. He had read it, in the end, for all he knew better. It did not help matters at all, but he had not expected it to.

_Mentor Kenway,_

_I would not be surprised if this letter remained unread. Should you choose to read it, I hope you will accept my apology for betraying your trust and the advantage I took of your generosity. I understand if you do not forgive me, and doubt my ability to do the same._

_Strange though it may seem, considering the duplicity of my intent, I truly enjoyed working with you. It reminded me of my youth; when the world seemed black and white, and old friends had yet to become enemies. A gay time we had hunting together, and I find I mourn its end. I would not call us friends, but I feel we were more than mere allies._

_Perhaps in another life, we might have been brothers._ _I know my betrayal pained you. Know I deeply regretted the necessity of acting as I did. It is my hope that this missive may give you some measure of peace; not all we shared was falsehood._

_I end now with my proper title, for there is no longer any need for secrecy._

_**Yours,** _

_**Shay Patrick Cormac** _

_**Grandmaster of the American Rite of the Order of Solomon’s Temple** _

It _was_ gratifying to know Cormac cared enough to write it, but Connor did not dare trust a word it said. The confirmation of the title was welcome, but nothing Connor had not already guessed. “He knew I’d know,” he explained to Jamie later, hoping another set of eyes might find something more useful in the missive, “as soon as I saw the recommendations.”

“How, though?” His fellow Assassin wondered.

“Because the only Templar who would consider something so radical is one who began as an Assassin.” Of _that,_ Connor was certain. He had never heard of a Templar seeking to overturn a government and replace it with their own before. They had always sought to control the places of power, not create them.

Jamie frowned. “If you’re right – and I have a bad feeling you are – we can’t let his philosophy spread. If other Templars embrace it…”

“I know.” Connor sighed. “If I had realized in Maryland, I would have killed him then.” He looked sadly out at the ocean waves. “As a single operative… but he is Grandmaster now. He has been all along, I think. As an individual he is a radical, but as leader of a Rite…”

“He can convince others,” Jamie finished. “Especially if he’s successful.”

“We will stop him,” Connor said firmly. Then, softer, “he named his son after my father.”

Jamie sighed. “It’s hard, knowing the pain we leave behind. But the pain caused by their success…”

“It was easier,” Connor said, “when I did not know.”

Jamie snorted. “When you were young and brash, you mean?”

Connor chuckled. “That too.”

“We need to care,” Jamie said quietly, “or we become as bad as they. But it hurts so damned much. It’s why I can’t talk to my mother; it hurts too much knowing she’s part of a system stripping men of their natural rights. I love her but…”

“You hate what she does.”

“Yes.” Jamie sighed again. “Maybe it’s why they stop caring; it hurts too much to continue.”

“I think _that_ is why men like Cormac are so dangerous,” Connor countered. “He has never stopped, but does what he believes right regardless.”

* * *

Springfield was a beautiful city, located on the confluence of three rivers. This fortuitous circumstance made it a nexus of trade from New York to Boston to Montreal. It was for that reason George Washington and Henry Knox had decided on the town for the Nation’s primary arsenal. An Arsenal now at risk.

“They practice on the West Springfield common,” William Shepard explained. “You’ll see them tomorrow.” The commander of the Springfield militia was a sharp man, Connor found, with a good grasp of his situation.

“Have they made a move on the armory?” Connor asked.

“Not yet,” Shepard admitted. “But it’s only a matter of time. If their demands are not met...”

Connor nodded, understanding. “What do they intend?”

“They’ve been shutting down the courts,” Shepard explained, pacing across the room. “Local ones, so far. But the Supreme Courts are supposed to open in the next few days. I doubt those rebels will allow it.”

“We will have to ensure they fail,” Connor agreed. He paused, then asked the question bothering him since he learned of this matter: “Why ‘Shay’s Rebels’?”

“Daniel Shays,” Shepard replied promptly. “He’s one of the leaders. Almost was Day’s Rebels, but I think Day frightens even those fools some.”

“A coincidence, then,” Connor mused. An ironic one, considering the man truly responsible.

Shepard shrugged. “I suppose.” He sighed unhappily. “It’s a damned shame.”

“You do not wish to fight them?” Connor asked.

Shepard shook his head. “I fought with those men; served at their side. They’re good people and they have reason for their grievances. The _cause_ is just, even if the actions are _not._ ” He sighed again. “I’ll do my duty, if it comes to it. But you’ll forgive me if I hope it won’t.”

“I understand,” Connor said. “There is… a man I have to kill. He is an enemy, but also – for a time – a friend.”

“It’s easy to kill a stranger,” Shepard agreed. “A man you know, who’s fought beside you…”

“He has a son not yet a year,” Connor said quietly. “I plan to make the boy an orphan.”

“We do our duty,” Shepard said solemnly.

“Yes.” Connor looked thoughtfully at the commander. Shepard had impressed him, these past few days. The Assassin saw great potential in the man. “William…” He began, carefully, “this rebellion is not what it seems.”

Shepard frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The man I spoke of, the man I must kill, he means to seize control of this Nation. His Order wishes to control the world. I – my Brotherhood and I – we stand against those men.” Shepard frowned, watching intently as Connor continued. “Where they would enslave the world, we work to keep it free.

“We call ourselves _Assassins._ ”

* * *

“You have gathered a great many men,” Connor noted later that night.

“I’ll need more.” Shepard scowled. “between them, Shays,” Connor startled, before recalling the rebel leader’s ironic name, “and Day, have mustered quite a force. I mean to dissuade them, but I’ll need numbers to do it.”

Connor nodded. “What do you need of me?”

“Can you gather the surrounding militias?”

“I can,” the Assassin agreed. “When do you expect the rebels?”

“Tomorrow,” Shepard answered. “Monday at latest.”

“I will be back by then,” Connor replied. He left, freerunning through the darkened city, heading toward the neighboring towns. It reminded him of the night he had ridden with Revere. He could only hope _this_ call would not end in war. He paused at the riverside, looking for a small, unattended boat. Finding one, he set out on the river. Hopefully, it would find its way back to its owner; the Assassin doubted he would have a chance to return it.

West Springfield had been part of Springfield, until the folly of trying to run a city on two sides of a river became evident. This was where Day had chosen to house his rebels; Connor would have to be careful here. The rebels had placed guards along the rooftops and were sending patrols along the streets. It was surprisingly orderly. _They were soldiers,_ Connor remembered, _and still trained._ He crept among them unseen. Shepard wished to avoid bloodshed, and Connor agreed. The rebels had yet to become truly violent; if the Templars could be prevented from interfering further, they might never be.

Connor knocked on the door Shepard had directed him to. “I bear a message from Commander Shepard,” the Assassin told the man answering. “He says you are to muster the militia after Day takes his men to court.”

“I don’t want to kill my neighbors,” the militia leader told him.

“With enough men, Shepard believes the rebels can be dissuaded,” Connor explained.

The man considered. “I’ll be there. But you’ll need more than just us.”

“I know,” Connor answered, and ran off again.

All night he journeyed from town to town, dodging rebels and rousing militias. By the time the sun rose, and he returned to Springfield, the Assassin was exhausted. _I’m thirty years old,_ he realized. It was a strange thought. He had never truly considered what it would be like to grow older, always focusing on his next fight. But now he was beginning to feel the passage of years; he no longer had the excessive energy of youth. He had no time to rest, however; the rebels had already begun to gather. They were posturing, forming battalions and performing combat drills. Shepard seemed pleased. “Shays and Day aren’t fools,” he explained. “They may have numbers, but we have better weapons and training. They know better than to fight.”

“So the courts will open,” Connor said, weary but relieved.

Shepard suddenly looked sheepish. “Well, the courts are open, but…”

Connor sighed. “Yes?” He demanded.

Shepard smiled guiltily. “See those men?” He pointed at a handful of militiamen.

“What of them?”

“Those are the judges.” The Assassin stared at the Commander. “They’re part of the militia,” the man said defensively.

“Why,” Connor said slowly, exhaustion and frustration growing, “are we keeping the court open _if we cannot have court?_ ”

“To stop the rebels from shutting it down,” Shepard explained reasonably. The Assassin just shook his head. This… situation was practically a farce.

The next few days did not alter his opinion. Twice, Connor had to gather a company of militia who had mistakenly joined the wrong side. Fighting nearly broke out when a detachment of rebels discovered they had been helping the militia. “Do you not,” Connor growled in frustration, after helping yet another confused militia man to the correct side, “have a better method to distinguish yourselves than paper and hemlock?!”

“We didn’t anticipate having to fight our own,” Shepard confessed. “I suppose no one considered the problem of identical uniforms.” Connor groaned. “As it is,” Shepard continued, “we have another problem.”

“ _Really_?” Connor ground out.

“Yes,” Shepard replied. “Spies. They keep switching between hemlock and paper as they cross between lines. I was hoping you could take care of them – non-fatally.”

Connor sighed. Shepard had been quick to grasp the potential of Eagle Vision, which was why the Assassin had spent the past two days as a glorified usher. He was the only one who could reliably differentiate between militia and rebel. Briefly, Connor wondered if it would be possible to train Shepard in the skill; Cormac had shown him it was possible, but the Assassin was uncertain of how to do so with someone who had never experienced it. _Something to try for another time,_ he decided. For now: “Very well,” Connor agreed. It was better than simply standing about an empty courthouse, shepherding men to their proper sides.

He walked among the militia, scanning the men with his Eagle Vision. Most of the men glowed a faint white or blue. A few, however, shone red. Connor frowned. He would have to remove the spies without alerting the militia _or_ the rebels. Despite its farcical nature, the situation was tenuous. They had avoided violence so far, and Connor intended to keep it that way. A thought came to him, and he smirked as he blended with the crowd watching the confrontation. He never could understand _why_ people always gathered where danger lay. If violence broke out, as was still entirely possible, the civilians would be in harms way. They had to be aware of their risk, yet _still_ they came to watch. It was rather convenient in this moment, however.

Sighing, Connor slipped in among the rebels. It was the work of a moment for him to snatch a handful of hemlock leaves from those the rebels were handing out. Still unnoticed, he crossed the divide a second time. Carefully, Connor swapped the paper markers in the spies’ hats for the hemlock. A few moments later, the militia began to notice the change.

“Ey! You belong on _that_ side, rebel!” A few minutes of confusion and some heated words later, the spies were back where they belonged. Connor smiled, pleased at the result.

“A most impressive gammon,” a woman commended him quietly.

Connor whirled around, eyes narrowing. “Who–”

The woman chuckled, voice rich and low. She had fiery red hair, Connor noticed, with a strand or two of gray woven through. At a guess he would say she was a few years older than he. She smiled, but there was no warmth in her dark eyes. “You are acquainted with my father, Mentor Kenway.”

Connor stiffened. “Where is he?”

The woman smiled coyly. “On the cut, no doubt.”

Connor frowned. “Why did he send you to speak with me?”

The woman smirked. “Oh, but he did not. He would be most cross if he knew, so we shall not tell him.” Her eyes softened slightly. “I _do_ love my father, for all that he is forever in some scrape. You spared him in Maryland, and I am grateful.” Her eyes hardened again. “So, I will warn you: we are watching, and so are _they._ ” She motioned at the crowd with one elegant hand, falling back in amongst them. A moment later, she was gone.

Connor scowled, moving purposefully through the crowd. He’d lost the woman – she was as good at blending as her father. A Hunter, most likely. Her words had woken something inside him. He would need to send someone to search for her – Clipper, perhaps. But that was just the beginning.

Arthur Middleton had influence and was a known Templar; he might lead them to others. Nathanial Gist had last been seen in Franklin; he would have to be found. Stephane could travel there from Virginia. Madison might not be a Templar, but some members of the Annapolis delegations _had_ been. Hamilton had written the recommendation; they could start there. Jacob had wanted to return to New York for business; he could investigate the young politician. Logan and Christopher… Connor would leave them under Dobby’s supervision; the Templars still had a slightly better chance of preventing war in Kentucky.

The truce had been over for months. It was long past time the Assassins returned to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Overturning Governments: No surprise our Grandmaster Cormac was friends with a Certain Francois-Thomas Germain, right?
> 
> Springfield Arsenal: The US's first Arsenal, it operated until late in the 20th century.
> 
> William Shepard: Militia officer, Revolutionary veteran, and later a congressional representative from Massachusetts. Also an Assassin, unfortunately.
> 
> Paper and Hemlock: Stuck in hatbands to differentiate between Militia and Shaysites. (No, not the radical Templars who call themselves that - the original ones.) It didn't work very well.
> 
> Robyn Cormac: A known eccentric who was a frequent guest at the all the high society galas, except when on missions for her father - whom she continually insulted.
> 
> AUthor's Notes: If that letter looks familiar... it's because you've seen it in Correspondence. And yes, the situation in Springfield really was that ridiculous.


	25. 1786: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

“Adams has done what?!” Connor demanded.

“Proved himself a big ole hypocrite, is what,” Fillian said petulantly. “All that talk of liberty – but when we _have_ it, _he_ takes it away.”

Connor scowled, glowering at the so-called ‘Riot Act’, as Adams had so kindly termed it. The Act allowed the sheriffs to kill the rioters, and forbade more than twelve armed men from gathering. Failure to comply would result in a public lashing, and up to a year’s imprisonment. It was very much like the sort of laws Sam Adams had led a rebellion against not so many years before.

“He wanted worse,” Fillan added, “but General Lincoln said there weren’t enough jails.”

“And that was Sam’s only problem,” Jamie said dryly.

“Nah.” Fillian shook his head. “He told Lincoln they oughta’ kill the rebels, so there weren’t no need for prisons.”

Jamie scowled. “Was one revolution not enough? He has to incite another – against himself?”

“What did Bowdoin say?” Connor asked.

“He said no way,” Fillian replied promptly.

_Well, at least the governor has some sense,_ Connor mused. Too bad that sense did not extend to low taxes and relief policies. This entire rebellion – Templar influence or no – might have been avoided if he had. Connor sighed, coming to a decision. “I’ll go talk to Sam,” he announced. “We know each other, and he may listen.” _Sam Adams,_ he thought ruefully, _is far too good at inciting rebellions._ Even, it seemed, when he wished to dissuade them. “He needs to stop angering the people.”

Jamie nodded. “Any instructions for us?”

Connor nodded. “I want you to contact Clipper. Tell him to look for the Hunter woman. I want you to continue working with Shepard; see if you can prevent things from getting violent. And see if someone can get inside the rebel forces; someone Cormac hasn’t met yet.” Jamie nodded, and Connor turned to their youngest member. “Fillian, are you ready to become an Assassin?”

The Initiate hesitated. “Does… Do I…?”

Connor shook his head. “I would not send you after Gillian. She is a Templar, but she is your sister. I know what it is to kill family; I will not willingly inflict it on another.”

“Okay, then,” the boy agreed.

Connor’s eyes narrowed, and his voice grew hard. “But, if it should come to it, would you fulfill your duty?”

Fillian frowned, mulling over the question. Connor was glad of it; it was not a matter to be dealt with lightly. “If… If I had to… to save people. I could do it then. But not… not for nothing. Not _just_ because she’s a Templar.”

Connor smiled softly at the boy. He doubted this was the end of it, but the most important decision had been made. “Very well. I have a mission for you.”

Fillian grinned brightly, suddenly eager. “A solo mission?”

“Yes.” Connor met the boy’s eyes, watching him intently. “Arthur Middleton is a Templar. Despite his father’s death, he has remained loyal to his Order. I want you to investigate him and see if he may lead you to others. Once you have learned all you can, strike.”

Fillian nodded. “So: Investigate Middleton, look for more Templars, kill Middleton. In that order.”

Connor smiled faintly at the boy’s eagerness. “Be careful. Middleton is not a fighter, but he will not be undefended. When you return,” Connor’s smile faded, and he looked seriously at the boy, hoping Fillian understood, “you will be an Assassin.”

The Creed was not an easy burden.

* * *

Samuel Adams did not seem to find the Riot Act, nor his subsequent decision to suspend _habeas corpus_ , remotely hypocritical. “That was entirely different,” he insisted. “In monarchies the crime of treason and rebellion may admit of being pardoned or lightly punished, but the man who dares rebel against the laws of a Republic ought to suffer death!”

Connor gazed long and hard at his old ally. Sam met him glare for glare, unyielding, refusing to back down. “You will not listen to reason, then?” Connor said at last.

“Reason?” Adams demanded. “When these men have forsaken it? The only reason they will heed is that of arms!”

“You only give them more reason to fight,” Connor pointed out.

“Bowdoin offered them forgiveness; they refused.”

It was true, but, “By suspending _habeas corpus_ you have proven their worst fears true,” Connor tried to explain. “They will not return their allegiance now, not when they believe their actions have been vindicated.”

“They are rebels,” Adams said coldly. “Nothing more.”

“So were you, not so long before,” Connor tried.

“Against a _monarchy_ ,” Adams insisted. “A Republic is another thing entirely.”

Clearly, the rebels were not the only ones to abandon reason. “What will it take,” Connor demanded, “for you to rescind these acts?”

“Get rid of the rebels,” Adams replied promptly. “Kill them or arrest them; they deserve death, but the Governor would prefer the latter course.” He smiled grimly. “I know how effective you can be; we have some men marching on Groton – merchants and bankers, mostly. Help them; when the rebels see we will not tread lightly on these matters, they will surrender like the cowards they are.”

Somehow, Connor doubted it would be that easy.

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

Groton was not an especially large town, which made it easy for Connor to scout. The haphazard merchant militia now numbered three hundred strong. Over the past few days, they had begun to remember their old army training. All that remained was for Connor to locate their target. Job Shattuck had once been a decorated officer in the Continental army. Now, he stood against his former comrades. Shattuck had been responsible for the mob who shut the court in Concord and had been plotting a similar raid in Cambridge before the order was given for his arrest. Adams believed Shattuck’s capture would severely demoralize the rebellion; Connor could only hope he was right. His old ally’s willingness to cast aside the very liberties they had once fought for concerned the Assassin deeply. Connor could not even blame Adams’ reasoning on the Templars; while Cormac _had_ contacted Sam, the Grandmaster had advised against such strict measures. Admittedly, Cormac’s motives were made suspect due to him _instigating_ the rebellion, but the point stood. The Assassins could not afford to assume the Templars stood behind every ill plaguing the world.

_Like the murder of Moluntha_ , Connor thought sadly. The Shawnee chief had been murdered by a rogue soldier, despite Logan’s orders. In spite of the efforts of both Orders, war had begun in Kentucky.

Connor knelt on the church steeple overlooking the town. The populace had been entirely unwilling to help the militia, refusing to betray their neighbor’s whereabouts. Enough had been said, though, to give Connor a fairly good idea of where the house was located. He scanned the town once more, fixing the layout in his mind. Then he leaped down, heading toward the area most likely to hold the Shattuck farm. Approaching his destination, the Assassin activated his Eagle Vision. Kneeling in the brush, Connor waited patiently. Eventually a man emerged, glowing faintly golden. _Shattuck_. Unfortunately, Connor’s Vision had also revealed numerous rebels hidden about the area. If he tried acting alone, as he had initially planned, there was a good chance the rebel leader would escape. Even if Connor managed to capture Shattuck, he would be unable to avoid killing so many opponents. The rebellion had yet to result in death, and Connor intended to keep it that way.

He slipped away unseen, returning to the militia with his report. The men promptly decided to attack – immediately. “We know where he is _now,_ ” one of the leaders explained. “If we wait, we may lose him.”

“If you charge in, he’ll run,” Connor warned. The militia ignored him.

The fighting about the Shattucks’ home was short, but fierce. There were no fatalities, Connor noted in relief, as he knocked out the last rebel. Most of the so-called ‘Regulators’ had fled. Unfortunately, as the angry howls from the home proved, so had Shattuck. Connor sighed, heading inside. The militia was in the process of tearing the house apart, while the leaders were haranguing Mistress Shattuck. The woman stood firm and proud before their assault, refusing to betray her husband’s whereabouts. “Leave her be,” Connor snapped. “I’ll find him.” Scowling, he activated his Eagle Vision, turning the world gray. Golden footprints led out the back door. “This way.”

He trudged through the snow, silently cursing the militia’s impetuousness. Had they been willing to _plan_ a proper assault, this would not have been necessary. Eventually, a lone man came into view, on the banks of the river. It seemed Shattuck had thought to cross over the ice, but even in late November the river continued to flow. It was a stroke of luck at last. “Surrender!” Connor shouted. “You’ve nowhere to run!”

“Never!” Shattuck cried. “I’ll bend no knee to tyrants, whomever they may be. Call me traitor, if you must, but I’ll stand and die by what I believe, now and always!”

_I see why he got on with Cormac,_ Connor thought wryly. The two men were cut from the same cloth. “Come quietly,” the Assassin tried anyway. “No one needs to be hurt.”

Shattuck glared at him. “I’d rather die standing, doing what’s right, _boy_ , than crawling on my belly in the hopes of clemency.”

“Then die, traitor!” A young militia man snapped, charging at the old veteran. Shattuck cursed, reaching for his sword. Connor got there first. He slashed his blade against the back of the rebel’s knee, slicing through muscles and tendons like butter. The man who would not kneel fell, lamed. Connor doubted he would ever walk properly again.

_It was a pity,_ Connor thought angrily, as the militia bound the injured man. Shattuck was a good man, loved by his hometown. The Templars had twisted this man’s life for their own purpose, and for that, Connor would see them pay.

* * *

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Shattuck said coldly. “I don’t know any Cormac, and I wouldn’t give him up if I did.”

“He’s _using_ you,” Connor explained. “What you want – it is not what he desires.”

“Cormac – assuming he exists, and I know him,” Shattuck countered, “wants a worthy government, same as all us Regulators.” He smirked, eyes fixed on Connor. “I’ll not give up my friends and allies to Adams’ stooge – not even those I never knew.” Injured, imprisoned, lamed, Job Shattuck remained firm, his spirit undefeated.

Connor inclined his head respectfully, acknowledging his defeat. “Very well. If you should come to feel otherwise…”

“I don’t know this man,” Shattuck repeated stubbornly.

“So it seems.” Connor left the room, struggling to control his anger. It was well and good to believe in a cause, but not when it blinded you! Why wouldn’t Shattuck see?

“Excuse me,” came a quiet voice.

Connor turned, frowning. “Mistress Shattuck?”

“Please,” the woman said, smiling faintly, “call me Sarah. Is it true you know Adams?”

“I do,” Connor confirmed. “But he will not let your husband go free.”

“I know,” Sarah said, “and I am not so foolish as to ask. But if I were to tell you what you wish, would you ensure Job gets the care he needs? It has been three days, and they will not send for a doctor.”

“I will,” Connor answered immediately. He would regardless of Sarah Shattuck’s willingness to help. “You know where I can find Cormac?”

She nodded. “But you will speak with Sam Adams first?”

“If you give me your word you will not warn him.”

“You have it,” swore Sarah Shattuck. “You’ll find Cormac in the Green Dragon – it’s where all the Freemasons and revolutionaries stay.”

* * *

It took some arguing, but Sam eventually agreed to get Shattuck a doctor and a proper bed. Now, Connor stood on a rooftop overlooking the Green Dragon Tavern, watching a red-tinted figure pace. This battle had been a long time coming, but Connor found himself hesitating. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the air, knowing it would be no comfort to the young children he was about to orphan, “but it must be done.”

He leaped to the opposing rooftop, swinging through the window, Blades rising to strike. His opponent rolled away, cursing, the Templar’s own blades extending, and Connor _knew._ “You are not Shay Cormac.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped back, guard still up. “Very good. What gave it away?”

“I… am not sure,” Connor admitted. “I suppose I simply know him too well.” It was an odd thought. “You resemble him greatly.”

“ _Father’s Reflection_ ,” the Templar said in the _Onödowáʼga꞉_ tongue. Connor raised a brow. “My name,” the double explained, “among our people. My father named me George Monro.”

Now Connor knew why he had never managed to meet this one. “The scar?” he asked.

“Clay,” George Monro replied. “Powder for the hair.”

“And your face?”

“Cosmetics to age it; the features are my own.”

“A reflection indeed,” Connor mused. “Would you remove it? I would see _you_ , not your father.”

“Before we kill each other?” The Templar said coldly. “Very well.” He moved toward the washbasin, never taking his eyes from Connor. He gently drew a damp towel over his face, sloughing off the layers of cosmetics aging him. A moment later, Connor found himself facing a man barely younger than himself. George Monro truly did resemble his father, age alone their greatest distinction. The Templar lacked a scar by his eye, but a small gap through his brow showed where the clay had worn away at the roots.

“What father,” Connor demanded furiously, “would erase his son so?”

“ _Yours_ ,” George Monro replied icily. “After my mother’s death, Da went off to seek revenge. Grandmaster Kenway saw the potential and trained me to take his place at a moment’s need. By the time Da managed to be sober enough to argue, I was too old to be dissuaded.

“I have not been erased,” he continued angrily, his calm demeanor beginning to crack. “You do not know my father at all, if you believe he would force this on me. I am _honored_ to serve my Order; _proud_ to perform a duty only _I_ can do. That it offers ample opportunity for revenge of my own? _That_ is a pleasure.” The Templar smirked dangerously, dark eyes colder than his father’s had ever been. “I would not have sought you out, Mentor Kenway, much as I wished to try my skill against yours. But as you have seen fit to offer the opportunity…” He lunged forward, Hidden Blades extending.

Instinctively, Connor lifted his arms to block. He felt a sudden sharp pain as a Blade cut through his upper arm. The Assassin fell back, kicking upward at his opponent, forcing the Hunter back. George Monro snarled, composure crumbling, loathing twisting his face as he lashed out at the Assassin again. Connor dodged without thinking, wondering. “Why do you hate me so?” He asked as they fought through the confined room, Blades clashing against the other’s.

“You are an Assassin.” The Templar sent a blow at Connor’s injured arm. The Assassin deflected, using the momentum to fling himself out the window. Connor was used to fighting outdoors; the confined space served only his opponent.

The Templar cursed vividly, leaping toward him from above. Connor moved aside, stabbing his Blades deep into the Templar’s side. Blood flowed out as he retracted the blades, staining the other man’s dark coat. “We are fighting a war,” the Assassin said quietly, ignoring the burning pain in his arm as he settled back into a defensive position. “You know this. Your mother was a Templar –”

“She was not.” George Monro suddenly smiled, the icy mask returning. “Did Da not tell you? She thought he was a British spy. He thought she was safer _not_ knowing.”

Connor’s eyes widened, and he swayed, suddenly feeling weak. “Then why –”

“Because your Creed is a lie,” the Templar spat bitterly. “Or perhaps it’s true. ‘Everything is permitted’, after all, even its violation.”

Connor’s arm burned, but his eyes were focused on the man before him. “She was an innocent.”

“Entirely. As were we – Liam found her, but I was the one to know she was gone.” The Hunter’s eyes bore deep into the Assassin’s. “ _This_ is why I _despise_ your kind. You are liars and hypocrites and I will not rest until the last echo of your foul Creed is _dead_!”

Connor’s breath hitched, and his vision swam as the Templar approached. _Poison,_ he realized, as his sense began to fade. _That’s why… Italians… Poison Blades…_ He forced himself to stand firm, pushing a sharp whistle past numbing lips. A shadowed figure landed on the ground, and the injured Templar fell back, barely avoiding the attack. Above, a rifle cocked loudly. “Stop,” Connor whispered, barely forcing the words through. “You… cannot… win today.”

“We will _never_ stop hunting you,” the Templar snarled. “Not so long as one Cormac lives!” The alley filled with smoke. Somewhere a gunshot sounded and Clipper’s distant cursing filled Connor’s ears. His legs finally gave out, the ground coming up to meet him.

“I marked him, at least,” Clipper was saying from somewhere far away. Then… “Connor! What –”

There were hands lifting him, turning him. Friends? Enemies? Did it matter? “Poison,” the Assassin choked out, tongue tripping over the word. “Poi –”

And the world went black.

* * *

End Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Samuel Adams: American Revolutionary and Assassin ally.
> 
> Riot Act: The first in the US. If you don't like these, blame Sam. Gotta love his reasoning though. When I do it, it's fine. When THEY do it...
> 
> Sarah Shattuck: First wife of Job Shattuck. She helped capture a known Tory spy during the Revolution.


	26. Interlude 3: 2020

Interlude:2020

* * *

Juhani emerged from the Animus, immediately moving to check the computer.

**Memory Compilation Complete: Simulation Accuracy: 46%**

**Unable to Synchronize**

Juhani frowned. This was not what he had hoped. It seemed Shay Cormac’s memories were still inaccessible. Unless…

There was another possibility, provided there was enough overlap between the two perspectives. It was not a technique often used, at it increased the risk of non-bleeding effect related risks: nausea, dizziness, and epileptic seizures, among others. Still, if one were willing to accept the risks, it was possible to swap perspectives mid-simulation. _Yes,_ Juhani decided. He would have the Animus sequence both samples at once, simulating both memories simultaneously. With any luck, it should suffice to allow him access to Cormac’s memories. He input the commands, settling back as the computer parsed the data. His mind returned to the events he had just witnessed, mulling them over.

The Northwest Indian War had broken out, of course, despite all attempts to prevent it. It seemed not even the Templars and Assassins together could defeat human stupidity. _Which is why they need a firm hand to guide them,_ Juhani thought. _A hand the Templars provide._ Pity the Assassins couldn’t see it, not even when their own allies did.

Samuel Adams had certainly come a long way from his revolutionary days. _Power always seems corrupt to those without,_ Juhani mused, _but when they gain it, they quickly come to embrace it._ Much like how the two major American parties were quick to argue for removing power from the executive and restoring it to Congress, but _only_ when the other side held the position.

The computer ‘ _pinged_ ’, signaling its completion.

**Connor Kenway Memory Compilation Complete: Simulation Accuracy 98%**

**Shay Cormac Memory Compilation Complete: Simulation Accuracy 69%**

Juhani smiled. It would do. He would have to switch periodically in order to maintain synchronization with Cormac’s memories, of course. _Perhaps it is better this way,_ he mused. Juhani would experience these last, most pivotal moments, from _both_ sides.

_Yes,_ he decided, as returned to the Animus, _this has worked out quite well._


	27. 1787: Chapter 1

**Part 4: 1787**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Shay sat nestled in the crook of a tree, _listening._ There were the usual sounds of the winter woods: wind blowing, barren branches smacking against one another, the crackle of snow where some creature stepped. But, above it all, were the _whispers._ Shay had never been able to properly describe them, not even to George Monro, the only one of his children to inherit even an echo of the gift. It was a sound, which was not a sound, just on the edge of hearing, loud and quiet all at once. The _whispers_ spoke of only one thing: _danger_. Someone, somewhere near, was coming to kill him. The Grandmaster smiled coldly. So be it.

Shay focused on the not-quite-sound, tracing the _whispers_ to their source. A red light appeared in the gray-tinted world of his Eagle Vision, growing more distinct as his unwary enemy approached. The Grandmaster waited patiently, keeping the Assassin in his awareness. For a moment, there was perfect silence.

The _whispers_ shrieked and the Assassin leapt. Shay moved, turning his startled opponents blow and striking up with his own Blade. The world _shattered_. “I know you,” Shay murmured, looking down at the man before him. “You were part of the Colonial Brotherhood.”

“As were you,” hissed the man known only as Joe. “ _Traitor_.”

“Yes,” Shay said curtly. He had little time – Joe would be dead soon, and any information lost with him. “Connor sent you after me?”

The fallen Assassin laughed. “I came myself. But Connor will be after soon – poison won’t keep him down for long.”

“Poison?” Shay asked, but the world was already reforming around them. The Grandmaster scowled, dropping to the ground. “You should’ve kept to wife beaters, Joe,” he muttered as he stalked off. Behind him, the snow slowly turned red.

“At least I know what’s delaying him now,” Shay muttered irritably, as he returned to his campsite. George Monro should have met him weeks ago. But if Connor had been poisoned… “I told you not to fight him,” the Grandmaster said aloud.

“He found _me_ , Da,” George Monro defended, moving stiffly toward the fire.

“You were hardly at point non plus, little brother,” Robyn scolded, turning to Shay. “He just wanted to darken the Assassin’s daylights, and promptly made a _mull_ of it. He’s just lucky _I_ was there to get him out of the scrape.” She sniffed haughtily. “Father, _must_ you pick such draughty places to stay? I’m like to die of cold!”

Shay chuckled. He had always been fond of his eldest daughter. “I apologize, Robyn. I was unaware you were coming. I would have ensured _proper_ accommodations otherwise.”

“Well, I would _not_ have come,” she admitted, “but for some goose who got himself injured near to _death_!”

George Monro glowered at his sister. “You’re making it worse than it was. I was perfectly capable of getting away.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Shay asked pointedly.

The Hunter looked away. “I…”

“Yes?” Shay asked, his voice softening. He knew his son, and he knew what lay behind the façade.

His boy sighed. “I was angry, and I let it get the better of me.” Shay nodded. “I was _not_ erased,” he added, eyes flashing with sudden heat.

It was Shay’s turn to sigh. _Damn you, Haytham…_ “I know. This is your choice. You can’t be me now anyway; you’re injured and I’m not.” Which meant his son could be _himself_ for awhile. George Monro would never forgive Shay if the Grandmaster _didn’t_ use the boy’s remarkable resemblance to their advantage, but Shay sometimes wished he could convince the boy otherwise. It was far too late for that, though. _My damn fault as much as Haytham’s,_ Shay admitted. Training George Monro to mirror his father had been Haytham’s way of enabling the boy to connect with a man he rarely saw. It had been Shay’s choice to go looking for revenge, leaving his young, grieving children behind. Not that _he’d_ been in any state to care for them, but he had still deprived them of their second parent immediately after they had been so cruelly stripped of their first.

Robyn sighed. “And _after_ he got into the mill, he couldn’t even have the Assassin backed!”

“I should hope not,” Shay said, startled out of his dark thoughts. “I need him alive.”

“Why?” George Monro demanded. “Why won’t you let me kill him?” Shay raised a brow, questioning. “I only used a half dose.”

“Ah.” The Grandmaster paused, nodding. “Thank you. I could wish you hadn’t fought him at all; it’s put us behind. Have Luke and Daniel attacked?”

“Not yet,” Robyn said haughtily, “though it was quite some work to keep them from it! I had to feign I was a _cit_!”

“How uncomfortable for you,” Shay said dryly.

His daughter glowered at him. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know _why_ I should expect even the _slightest_ understanding from my father. As you are a cit yourself, and utterly _bereft_ of sensibility, one could _hardly_ expect you to understand the _indignity_ such façade must be to me.”

“I’m not a cit,” Shay protested teasingly. The lack of sensibility he could hardly deny.

“You are, Da,” George Monro said dryly.

“Technically not,” Shay pointed out. “I’m the Earl of Avon, remember?” Both his children promptly laughed, which was rather the point.

“What was _dear_ George thinking?” Robyn asked, giggling.

“The King’s mad, remember?” George Monro laughed. “I’d wager that had something to with it. I can’t imagine he’d have given it otherwise.”

Shay grinned, enjoying his children’s mirth, even if it _was_ at his expense. In truth, he’d saved the King’s life, much as Shay had saved Franklin’s and Madison’s. Haytham had not been pleased, mostly due to Shay utilizing the King’s ear to encourage policies such as the Coercive Acts. _If by Coercive you mean ‘liable to cause a rebellion’._ Something Shay had wanted and Haytham had _not_. _I’ll have to thank Connor for the help some time._

His children’s giggles and teasing slowly died, as the seriousness of the situation crept up on them again. “What next?” George Monro asked.

“ _You_ find somewhere to heal properly,” Shay answered. “Robyn and I will return to Massachusetts to ensure nothing happens until Mentor Kenway recovers.”

His son’s eyes narrowed. “Which brings me back to my earlier question,” the boy said coldly.

_Which?_ _Oh –_ “I need him to end the rebellion for me,” Shay explained. “Assassins are very good at ending Templar plots, so I’ve given them one to take care of.”

George Monro snorted. “Your plot includes the Assassins _stopping_ the plot?”

“Every wise Grandmaster should include it,” Shay said sagely. “Otherwise they’re liable to do it when you _don’t_ want them to.”

“Is that why you had Robyn warn Kenway?” George Monro asked.

Shay stiffened. “Robyn?” He asked, voice dark.

“Oh, don’t set up your bristles so, Father,” Robyn said airily. “You _know_ I so hate punting on River Tick.”

Shay stared at her blankly, anger flaring in his eyes. “What has that,” he said through gritted teeth, “to do with _warning him_?”

Robyn shot him a confused look. “He let you live in Maryland, Father,” she said simply.

“I see,” Shay snapped. **_Damn_** _Robyn and her idiotic sense of ‘propriety.’_ He loved his daughter, but her eccentricity could be as problematic as it was helpful.

“Besides,” the girl added, “now he thinks I’ll help him.”

“You might have led with that,” her brother noted. Shay agreed.

“There’s nothing to be done for it now anyway,” he said, anger fading. “Just as there’s nothing I can do for Job now; it’ll have to wait until Hancock is back in power.” His children nodded. “The war has started up again,” he continued. “Dobby tried to kill Benjamin after the war broke out.”

“Oh, poor Christopher!” Robyn gasped. “He must be utterly blue deviled! George Monro, you be nice when you see him now.”

“Yes, sister,” the younger of the two replied dryly. “I’ll console him over the loss of his pretty Assassin maid.”

“She escaped,” Shay noted, a faint smile touching his lips. He’d never much liked the girl, but his son had, and that was enough for him. “Alexander shot an Assassin following him; as best we can make out, they both survived. There was no body to be found, at least.”

“Uncle Nathanial?” Demanded Robyn.

“He was tracked by Atasá:ta, but managed to lose him. He’s gone to ground for now; last I heard from him, he was heading back north – carefully.”

“And the others?” George Monro asked.

“Gillian was warned by her brother, so she’s long gone from Massachusetts,” Shay answered. “I’ve ordered the rest of those who can to bury their affiliations and keep their heads down until I give the word. We’ll need them in Philadelphia.”

“Those who _can_ ,” his son noted. “Who can’t?”

“Benjamin,” Shay answered. “He’s trapped in Kentucky. Alexander: he needs to be active. Me, obviously. I need to be here. Robyn, too. And…” he sighed, “Arthur. They know what he is, and he can’t just leave. And he can’t defend himself either; he’s no Hunter.”

“We all know the price,” Robyn said somberly. For a moment they sat in silence, holding vigil for their brother Templar.

“My mother-in-law?” George Monro asked at last.

“Safe on the _Éire_ ,” Shay answered, “recovering. Miss Margaret is with her." Robyn smiled warmly, her relief hidden behind her usual vapid mask. Not that there was reason for it here, but such feelings would not be looked at kindly elsewhere and Robyn found it easier to retain her guise. "We made sure the _Aquila_ saw the little ones playing; the Assassins won’t attack her now.”

“Are you so certain?” The Hunter snapped. “It hasn’t always stopped them.”

“This is not the Colonial Brotherhood,” Shay said flatly, “nor the Portuguese.” And he was _not_ going to discuss the subject further. “Robyn, are you ready to travel?”

His daughter nodded primly. “I don’t suppose you’ve acquired a barouche for us?”

“In this snow?” Shay laughed. “It wouldn’t get two feet!”

Robyn sighed. “Oh, very well. But you’re to carry me if I become fagged, Father.”

“Be careful,” George Monro said, as they prepared to leave.

“I will,” Shay promised. A sudden thought occurred to him. “I killed one of the Assassins earlier. Do you think you could…?”

“I’ll take care of it,” the Hunter promised.

“Thank you,” Shay said. “You be careful as well.”

“I will,” his boy promised.

Shay laughed as he walked off with Robyn. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, lad.” He looked back, smiling warmly at his boy, sitting alone by the dying fire. “You are _my_ son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Earl of Avon: I'm pretty sure there's still a Most Honorable Lord Cormac around somewhere. Come to think of it, his name may be Shay, too. 
> 
> King George III: Not to be confused with his grandfather George 2, or his great-grandfather George 1, or his son George 4. Also not George 5, 6, or future monarch George 7.
> 
> AUthor's Notes:  
> The reference to George 3's mental health is slightly anachronistic; his first bout of madness occurred in the 1760's, but would not recur until 1788. I added a line to make Robyn's relationship with Margret clearer.


	28. Chapter 2: 1787

Chapter 2:1787

* * *

Connor awoke, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head throbbed and the room swam. Everything felt too hot and too cold all at once and there was a terrible taste on his tongue. There were people talking around him and hands holding him down. Connor thrashed, trying to break free, but the hands held firm. Someone forced his mouth open and a foul-tasting brew was poured down his throat. The world grew dark and the Assassin knew more.

The second time Connor awoke, he could think. “I was poisoned,” he said, his voice horse.

“Yes, you were,” Dobby said as she limped over. “Had us pretty worried, but you pulled through.”

Connor frowned. “What happened?”

Dobby sighed. “Tried to take out Logan. It didn’t go over very well.” She hesitated briefly. “He was burning villages when I left, forcing the inhabitants out in the snow. Said if he couldn’t stop the war, he was going to do his best to ensure the tribes couldn’t fight one.”

Connor shut his eyes, allowing himself a moment of grief. “I see.”

“Jacob’s here too,” Dobby said. “Hamilton hurt him pretty bad. Bastard got away without a scratch, too.”

So Hamilton was a Templar. “Gist?” Connor asked.

“Escaped.” Atasá:ta entered the room, trembling with rage. “I marked him, but he convinced the Oyata’ge’ronoñ to protect him. I did not wish to kill them, so it took some time to extricate myself. When I did, he was already gone.” The Kanien’kehá:ka Assassin scowled. “He was one of those who killed my father. I had hoped to achieve my vengeance, but it has been stolen from me again.”

That was right, Connor recalled. Atasá:ta’s father had been an Assassin of the Colonial Brotherhood. The Templars had killed him near the end of the Purge. “I did not know Nathanial was among those,” Connor apologized.

“Nor I,” Atasá:ta said, “until I saw him again.”

Connor nodded. “Let the others know I am awake,” he said. “I need to know what has happened.” Atasá:ta inclined his head, leaving the room. Connor returned his attention to Dobby. “You said Jacob was injured?”

Dobby scowled. “Hamilton shot him in the leg. Duncan got him out, but the wound was infected. For awhile we thought we might have to amputate, but it’s been clearing up. The doctor thinks he’ll recover now.”

Connor hoped so. Jacob had a family to care for. _As do I_ , the Assassin thought. Matters were not as they had been; he could no longer risk himself as he once had. He would have to try to be more careful. “Hamilton is another Templar.”

“And a Hunter,” Dobby confirmed. “Assuming we’re right about the Templars with Hidden Blades.”

Another Hunter. There were far too many of those for Connor’s liking. Just how many _had_ Cormac trained? “Have we learned any more about them?”

“Not really,” Jamie said as he entered the room, Clipper, Atasá:ta, and Fillian following behind. “I’ve made a list of all the ones we know, but there are almost certainly more.”

“They’re Assassin trained,” Dobby said, taking up the thread, “and use Hidden Blades. The ones we’ve seen have worn their rings on the left hand, like Cormac does.”

“We think it’s what identifies them,” Jamie continued. “Conlan wears his on his right, so it seems not every Cormac is a Hunter.”

“And not every Hunter is a Cormac,” Clipper concluded. “Logan could have been an anomaly, but Logan _and_ Hamilton…” His voice trailed off as Connor frowned.

“The other Brotherhoods have been informed?”

Clipper nodded. “Faulkner sent word.” There was that, at least.

“Is there anything else?” Connor asked, shifting his position slightly. He _hated_ being bedridden.

“We think that madman – Coyote Man, some call him – may be one of the Hunters,” Atasá:ta said. “But he has not been seen for some time.”

“Shay has very specific ideas of what it is to be a Templar,” Connor said thoughtfully. “He has killed those he believed to be false or overly violent before. Given what we know of Coyote Man, it would not surprise me if he met such a fate.” He sighed again, turning to their youngest member. “I see you’ve returned, Fillian.”

The boy smiled sheepishly. “I killed Middleton?”

“Very good.” Connor smiled at the boy, who blushed.

“He also warned his sister,” Clipper snapped, glaring at Fillian.

The young Assassin glared back. “She’s my sister! And I didn’t _warn_ her – I told her she should leave the Templars.”

_Which was all the warning Gillian needed_ , Connor thought irritably. “What _exactly_ did you tell her?”

The boy flushed. “I told her she was too good to be a Templar. And… And I knew she killed our parents,” he said in a sudden rush, “and I knew why, too.”

“She killed your _parents_?!” Dobby demanded, horrified. “And you forgave her?”

Fillian looked down guiltily. “When we had the truce… I snuck to New York and asked Mistress Cormac.” _He’d done_ **_what?_** “I figured out what Gillian’d done and I wanted to know why.”

“What did Mistress Cormac tell you?” Connor asked warily. He trusted Shay’s wife even less than her husband. The beautiful face hid a sharp and cunning mind.

“She said our mother did bad things to Gillian,” Fillian said quietly. “I’d forgot, but when she said that I remembered. It wasn’t just Gilly – it was me too. And Gilly caught her, so she took a knife and made her stop. But then Athair came and he saw and… Gilly still had the knife. I think she panicked; I don’t think she meant to kill _him_.” Connor looked at the other Assassins, all as horrified as he.

“What parent...?” Dobby muttered.

“I couldn’t just leave her to die!” Fillian shouted, his eyes full of tears. “Not after I knew. Not after…” Jamie held him, as the boy sniffled. “She did it for me,” he whispered. “She did it for me.”

“She did,” Connor affirmed softly. “And you saved her?”

Fillian shook his head, still pressed against Jamie’s chest. “No, I… I told her the Templars were going down. And she was too good to go down with them.” He sniffled again. “She said she could defend herself fine, but she’d let me go ‘cause I warned her. So I left.”

Connor sighed. “I cannot say I do not understand. What happened to you and your sister was terrible, and what she did to save you…” He could not imagine the choice the young girl had had to make, and a part of his heart went out to the Templar woman. “You have done nothing wrong,” he continued, “for you have not yet pledged to the Creed. But once you _do_ ,” he forced his voice to harden, “you cannot act as you have. Can you accept that?”

Fillian swallowed. “I know,” he admitted. “I realized, after. And I won’t do it again. I don’t know if I could ever kill her, though.”

Connor looked thoughtfully at the boy. Fillian had grown, and grown into _himself_ , in the years since he had been a Boston street thief. “I can accept that,” Connor said at last. “Can _you_ accept the possibility of her death at our hands?”

“Yes.” Fillian’s eyes were wet, but his voice was firm.

“Then you are an Assassin,” Connor stated. There had been a ceremony once, he knew. Achilles had spoken of it and Cormac had written of the same. Connor had not needed one, and neither had his pupils. There would be no robes or Hidden Blades given out, not unless Fillian requested them. “Go, and find a place for yourself in the dorms.”

After a moment, when Fillian had gone, Connor asked, “is there any word from the _Aquila_?”

“The _Morrigan_ ’s vanished,” Clipper reported. “So have the other Templar ships, except the _Éire.”_

Connor frowned. The _Éire_ was a Man o’ War, the largest and most powerful of Cormac’s small fleet. “Why does she remain?”

Clipper shrugged. “Faulkner thinks she’s waiting for something – or _someone_. The _Aquila_ can’t attack though – Cormac’s little ones are on board.”

Connor's frown deepened. “Faulkner is certain?”

Jamie nodded, looking irritated. “He says they have at least one on deck every nice day. The Templars _know_ we won’t attack as long as they’re there, so…” He scowled.

“He’s using the Creed against us,” Atasá:ta said angrily, “and his own children as shields. What if we _were_ willing to attack innocents?”

“His children would be elsewhere,” Connor answered, utterly certain of it. “He knows there is no risk in keeping them aboard; he would not do so otherwise.” _Shay Cormac,_ Connor thought irritably, _is far too good at subverting the Creed for his own ends._ Not so surprising, considering the Templar had once been sworn to it.

“He’s going to have another,” Clipper noted, “or so Faulkner claims.”

“Again?” Dobby demanded. “Doesn’t he have enough children already?”

“He trains them all to kill us,” Atasá:ta said with some annoyance. “Perhaps he is trying to breed an army?”

“Succeeding, you mean,” Jamie said wryly. Connor chuckled. Shay _did_ have a ridiculous number of children. The Assassin still had not met them all.

The momentary levity faded quickly. “Has William arrived?”

“He’s on the _Aquila,_ ” Jamie said. “Faulkner plans to bring him here as soon as you give the word.”

“He has it,” Connor said, then: “Have any of you seen the Hunter woman?”

Clipper shook his head. “I caught a glimpse when she had Cormac’s double loaded into a carriage. I haven’t seen her since.” He frowned, asking, “where did he _find_ someone who looks just like him?”

“It’s his son,” Connor said, “George Monro. My father trained him to take Cormac’s place when needed.” He sighed. “So, you have not found the woman.”

“Why do you want her found so much?” Dobby asked.

“The woman warned me,” Connor answered. “I would like to know why.”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “What benefit could Cormac have from that?”

“She said he did not know,” Connor replied.

“She might be lying,” Atasá:ta noted.

It was possible, but… “I do not think she was,” Connor admitted. “I can see no way her warning benefited her father.” He sighed again. “Perhaps it was gratitude, as she claimed.” He shook his head. “Is there any word from Stephane?”  
  


“In Virginia,” Dobby reported. “He says we might want to recruit Patrick Henry. Apparently, the man lives and breathes liberty.”

“He also thinks another man, Mason, may be an ally,” Jamie said. “And he’s reached out to Madison, who has been receptive, as well as Randolph. Washington he intends to leave to you, as you already know him.”

Connor nodded. It was good news. “Joe?”

“He is on a personal mission,” Atasá:ta said, “or so he claimed when I gave him your orders.”

Connor frowned. Joe had done this before, disappearing for months at a time on ‘personal missions’. He never bothered to explain what those entailed, though Connor could guess. Joe protected women and children; his ‘personal missions’ tended to end with many evil men – and some women – dead. If he was on one of those, the Assassins wouldn’t hear from him for some time. Connor appreciated what the man did, but his timing was terrible. “And Duncan?”

“Infiltrated the rebels,” Clipper revealed. “He says they’re planning something big.”

“It seems I’ve awoken just in time,” Connor said dryly, but his next words were firm. “We _must_ put an end to this Templar rebellion before May.” If they did not, the frightened delegates would be easily led by the Templars into creating a worse government than the non-existent one the Nation currently had.

* * *

Bowdoin, Connor discovered, had had an epiphany during the Assassin’s convalescence. “If Congress cannot fund an army,” the Governor had explained, “and Massachusetts cannot either, then we merchants will do so ourselves.” The duty of arranging the matter had fallen on General Benjamin Lincoln.

Lincoln had served with distinction during the Revolutionary War. Connor had not met him then, but the General struck him as a calm man with a fierce spirit. Lincoln walked straight and true, despite his limp. “Mentor Connor. I have heard much of you from my comrades. It is good to meet the man at last.”

Connor took Lincoln’s proffered hand. “As am I, General Lincoln. What is your plan?”  
  


The General smiled. “To the point, I see. Very good. Several wealthy men of my acquaintance will be meeting at a club tonight. You have dealt directly with these ‘Shaysites’; you can impress upon them the risk the rebels pose. I will follow you by suggesting to them the importance of their becoming loaners of part of their property if they wish to secure the remainder.”

Connor nodded. It was a good plan. “When do we leave?”

“Now.” Lincoln led the way outside, where a fine carriage waited. Connor climbed in quickly, offering the General a hand. He waved it off. “I’m perfectly capable. I fought many a battle on this ankle and will fight more, or so it seems. A carriage is nothing.”

“I apologize,” Connor said. General Lincoln had a right to his pride; he had fought at Savannah, Charleston and Yorktown, all after receiving his injury at Fort Edward.

Lincoln chuckled. “Forgotten, but do not forget.”

“I will not,” Connor agreed, as the carriage began moving.

It was different, visiting the wealthier areas of Boston. For much of Connor’s time here it had been the province of the British and the Templars. Now the Templars drove the common folk and the Assassin rubbed shoulders with the elite. Cormac had reversed their traditional roles, and Connor was wary of the change. _We are still being made to play by your game,_ he thought bitterly.

But what was he to do? Allow the rebellion to continue unchecked? The Union to shatter? Connor had no doubt those possibilities would hurt the Templars deeply, but it would hurt the people more. _He knows this. He knows **us**_. Of course he did; Shay Cormac was a traitor, in the worst of ways. Connor had never truly viewed the man as such before. Haytham had used Hidden Blades and been trained as an Assassin; Connor had viewed the new Grandmaster in the same light, despite knowing it was not the same. He had never _known_ Shay Cormac as anything but a Templar.

_He is a traitor_ , Connor repeated mentally. Not like Haytham, who had carried elements of the Assassins despite never being one. _I cannot defeat the Templar,_ Connor realized, _because that is **not** what he is._ Shay Cormac was an Assassin _traitor_. Only by knowing that, acknowledging it, _accepting_ it, could Connor turn this about.

Even if he could not, the _traitor_ would not live to see his victory.

* * *

The club was an elegant affair: settees draped in fine fabrics; men in elegant suits and powdered wigs; women with their hair high in curls, sweeping about in layered gowns. Connor felt entirely out of place and, by the looks he was receiving, the patrons knew it too. It was only by accompanying Lincoln he was given an entrance at all.

“Mr. Breck, Mr. Russel, Mr. Davis, Mr. Burell,” the General greeted a handful of men. “My associate, Mentor Connor. He provided great service to General Washington during the war.”

“Forgive me,” Mr. Breck said, asking the question for the company, “but I’ve not heard of him.”

Lincoln shook his head. “Connor’s work was not the sort spoken of, but vital all the same. Work he continues even now,” he added meaningfully.

“Oh!” Gasped Russel. A sp–” Burell stamped on the man’s foot.

“It is an honor to meet you, Mentor Connor. An interesting title, if I may ask…?”

“You may,” Connor replied dryly, “but I am not inclined to answer.”

Mr. Davis chuckled. “He has you there, Mr. Burell.” He turned to Connor. “I suppose you’re here because of our troubles.”

“Shay’s rebels,” Connor confirmed, mentally assigning ownership where it belonged. “I’ve seen them and they are well organized. Shays and Day have military experience,” as did Cormac, “and they know how to lead men. The rebels run drills every day; I suspect they intend something more than merely shutting courts."

“You don’t think they’ll stop?” Breck asked hopefully.

“Not unless they are made to,” Connor answered firmly.

“And that, my friends,” Lincoln said as he took over, “is why _we_ must act. Congress is helpless and the State is bankrupt. If we are to protect ourselves from Shays’ and his band, we must be the ones to fund this endeavor. Bowdoin has pledged…”

Connor stepped back as the General went on, scanning the room. As he glanced over at the refreshments, a familiar face caught his eye. He froze, eyes narrowing as he activated his Eagle Vision. Amongst the many gray and white people, one woman glowed red, shifting to gold as Connor narrowed his focus. The Assassin began to move purposefully through the room, blending with the crowd when possible. The woman, the one from Springfield, turned her head, smiled and headed to the dance floor. Cursing inwardly, Connor followed. This woman, like her brothers, had Eagle Vision.

The woman had taken a partner by the time he arrived, and was twirling about the dance floor, moving gracefully through the steps of the waltz. Connor moved up, interrupting the pair. “May I cut in?” He asked gruffly. It _was_ what he was supposed to say, if he recalled correctly.

The Hunter woman laughed gaily. “If you do not mind, Mr. Patterson? I doubt I will have another chance to try General Lincoln’s mysterious guest on the floor.”

Mr. Patterson chuckled. “Very well, Miss Cormac. But you _must_ promise me another.”

“I shall be certain to save you a spot on my card,” the woman promised, before offering her hand to the Assassin. It was her right, he noticed, and she wore her ring on it. Not a Hunter, then? “Mentor Kenway.”

“I prefer Connor,” he grit out, as she led him onto the floor.

“That would be entirely too forward, Mentor Kenway,” the woman chided. “We would need to be the most intimate of friends before I would _dare_ presume such liberties.”

She used a great many words where few would suffice, Connor noted irritably. “What do I call you?” He asked harshly, moving clumsily through the unfamiliar dance.

“Miss Cormac,” the woman replied, “as is proper for two strangers.” She smiled archly. “Tell me Mentor Kenway: is your attempt to murder my feet payment for my father’s duplicity? If so, I must say, it is most unkindly done.”

“I do not dance,” Connor said flatly.

“But you must learn, Mentor Kenway! How else are you to stand among the Ton?”

_The what?_ “I do not intend to,” Connor said, but before he could say more, the woman had already begun.

“So blunt! Why it is near enough to set a girl’s heart aflutter, did she not know Mistress Kenway held your own! How _is_ your wife, Mentor Kenway? You ought to have brought her.” She glared mockingly at him, still speaking. “You are _too_ unkind keeping her in that draughty village with the children! A woman _must_ have her entertainment and diversions or she is like to go mad!”

_Like you_? Connor thought unkindly. Idly, he wondered how Miss Cormac had managed to dispense with breathing. “What are you doing?”

“Making conversation, Mentor Kenway, as one does in polite company.” She smiled brightly, eyes wide and guileless. She was a remarkable actress, Connor acknowledged. “I see your wound has healed nicely. I _do_ apologize for _dear_ George; he is not usually like this, I assure you. It is only when it comes to his mother… Such a tragedy, that. I am told she was a lovely woman.”

Connor blinked, startled. “She was not your mother?”

Miss Cormac laughed. “Oh, heavens, no! I’m afraid I’m as baseborn as you, Mentor Kenway. Father dallied with my mother when he was little more than a boy himself – nor was he the only one, I am ashamed to say. She was _quite_ the bark of frailty, you know.” Connor didn’t, but he could guess. “It is why Father did not know of me, nor my elder brother, for some years. Grandmaster Kenway, _your_ father, noticed the resemblance and took us in until Father returned from… oh, wherever it was Grandmaster Kenway sent him.” She smiled coyly. “You’ll forgive me if I forget the name; it was quite some time ago.”

Connor frowned. “You… when were you born?” Connor had been born in the mid-fifties, and this woman was older than he. If her father’s log was accurate, from the early 1750’s on, the man had been at sea more often than not, performing missions for the Assassins. _Is she of age with her mother-in-law?_

“Mentor Kenway!” Miss Cormac gasped, looking scandalized. “A proper gentleman _never_ asks a woman her age!”

Connor had had enough of this farce. “I am an Assassin, not a gentleman,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He could wish they had met somewhere other than a crowded club, where he could control the situation. This forum was his opponent’s arena.

Miss Cormac smiled dangerously. “Ah, but then I must be a Templar, Mentor Kenway, and could hardly engage you in intimate conversation. Now,” her smile suddenly grew warm and eager, “tell me of this ‘Dobby’ poor Chris is dangling after. He has the most ridiculous case of calf-love I’ve ever seen! Personally, I hold she’s a bit beneath his touch, but I _am_ the elder sister and am inclined to think so of any woman who would make eyes at my little brothers.”

Was… the Templar asking him about her brother’s _love life_? _Yes,_ Connor decided. _She is, and I have had enough._ “What are you doing here?”

“Dancing, Mentor Kenway, and engaging in civil whiskers.” _What?_ “Though it would be easier with a more competent partner.” She gazed coyly at him, batting her lashes. “Why sir, what manner of havey-cavey business do you think me about?”

“These men,” Connor said carefully, watching her intently, “will stop your father’s rebellion.”

“I should hope _someone_ would,” Miss Cormac returned happily. “If I did not know otherwise I’d think Father was on the cut when he came up with this gammon. But then, Father always _was_ shockingly loose in the haft.”

Connor was coming to the conclusion that, despite the similarities, they were speaking different languages. He was fairly certain Cormac had just been insulted, though. “I don’t understand you.” In more ways than one.

Miss Cormac sighed. “Well, I won’t say he’s made a mull of things, because he hasn’t, but he’s certainly cut up _my_ peace.” Her lips pursed in a childish pout. “I’m afraid I’m quite knocked up from it. So if you’ll be so kind as to put an end to this mill – preferably _without_ barking irons; I’ve no desire to don black, you understand–” no, Connor did _not_ , “I would be willing to help you.” _That_ he understood. “And send you a caper merchant.”

Connor sighed, giving up on making sense of this woman’s speech. “What do you want?”

“Father to stop raising the breeze, so I may return to the Ton. I’ve quite enough of these cits.” That was not particularly helpful.

“I do not understand,” Connor said again, knowing it was futile. Either the woman was playing with him, or she was genuinely incapable of talking in a comprehensible manner. He suspected the first; the Templar was having too much fun.

Miss Cormac sighed heavily. “And here I thought you were fly to the time of day. I want the rebellion ended and Father’s plans here done, so I may return to Europe.” The first, then. “I’m quite off the shelf, you know. Not that my chances were ever good, what with Father a cit and me his by-blow. But I’ve no interest in these _Americans,_ ” she sniffed disdainfully, “always ready to sport their canvas and raising some kind of breeze. I may have been born among them, but your father sent me across the herring pond and had me raised in a proper manner.”

“I… see…” He thought he did; Miss Cormac seemed intent on making herself incomprehensible. “You will help me.”

“I won’t cry rope,” she warned. Connor nodded, knowing better than to ask what she meant. “But I _will_ speak to the cits on your behalf.” She smiled sweetly, as the waltz came to an end. “Now, I’m afraid I _must_ go. The minuet will be starting soon, and I promised _dear_ Mr. Patterson a dance.” She swept away in a flurry of emerald skirts, leaving the Assassin feeling exasperated and confused.

“How,” he muttered irritably, “is that _English_?”

“Miss Cormac?” Lincoln chuckled, as he joined Connor at the edge of the dance floor. “She was raised in the ton – England’s high society. The nobility have their own way of doing things.”

“She is not a noble,” Connor noted.

“No, although her father is now. But she was like this even before Shay won himself a title.”

Connor turned, startled. “You know her father?”

“Shay?” The General smiled. “Of course I do; he fought with me in the Southern theatre. He preferred the seas though.”

Connor frowned, hiding his dismay. How many friends did Cormac _have_? “I think she said she would help me.”

Lincoln nodded. “Robyn’s been talking people into opening their purses all night. She wants to return to England, but Shay won’t leave until the rebellion is settled. He has too many interests here.”

_More than you know,_ Connor thought sourly. But was Robyn Cormac working for or against them?

**AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C AC:C**

Dobby glowered at Connor as he entered the homestead. “Can you explain,” she demanded, “why a ‘Miss Cormac’ has sent you a dancing master?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Logan's Raid: After the death of Moluntha, Logan burned many Native villages in order to prevent them from being able to run an effective, and now inevitable, campaign. Whether or not he was correct in doing so is a matter of some debate.
> 
> Benjamin Lincoln: If you see a city in the South called Lincoln, it's for this guy, not an unrelated man named Abe. Lincoln fought in most of the major battles of the Revolution.
> 
> Breck, Russel, Dvis, Burell: wealthy Boston merchants
> 
> Robyn Cormac: Eldest daughter of Shay Cormac, she was known as an eccentric and a frequent attendee to routs, balls, galas and other sundry affairs in Georgian and Regency England. Which meant she knew everything about everyone, of course. She never married, though recent evidence has indicated that her relationship with her abigail may have been more intimate than was commonly known. She was born around 1750, and was older than her father's second wife. Much older than his third.
> 
> Waltz: Considered pretty sedate now, but it was the new fangled, highly risqué, import from Vienna back then. Imagine! An unrelated man and woman dancing with such physical closeness!
> 
> Mr. Patterson: Another member of Boston's elite, he fought with Lincoln's forces.
> 
> Dancing Cards: Hey, proof these DID exist in the Georgian/Regency period! Guess Heyer didn't invent that after all.
> 
> Ton: British High Society
> 
> AUthor's Note: Gillian's backstory does not make sense. People don't kill their parents randomly. I know they were trying to make her out to be a psychopath, but even psychopaths don't act without reason. She gained nothing by killing her parents... unless being out on the street was better than staying with them. She also had no reason not to kill her brother if she was just excising family members. So this is my explanation. As to whether or not her father was an intentional casualty... that's up to you. 
> 
> From now on this will only be updated once I have received one review. The entire thing is written, so I can update pretty quickly once I have one. But I'm posting this to get feedback so I can improve my writing. It's also encouraging to know people are reading this. Thanks for understanding.


	29. 1787: Chapter 3

1787: Chapter3

* * *

  
Shay braced himself against the icy January winds, his white coat flapping with the gusts, red tassels suspended in the frosty air like bloody streamers. For a moment, he could almost imagine he was on a ship, instead of a frozen Massachusetts plain.

The wind died, and the moment faded. The Grandmaster smirked, his smile colder than the winter air. His eyes drifted over the Regulator militia, drilling in the snow below. Despite recent setbacks, matters were coming together. 

_One last push_ , Shay decided. Something to impress the danger on the States and weaken the rebellion all at once. Two birds with one stone. It was only a matter of how.

The what was obvious: the Springfield armory held great strategic and sentimental value; it was also host to great stores of arms and ammunition – enough to keep the rebellion going for months. The Regulators had been considering taking it for some time; it wouldn’t take much to convince Shays, Day and Parsons to prepare an assault.

The Regulators had been champing at the bit since the Groton raid, months before. It had taken every ounce of Shay’s skill to hold them back, especially since George Monro’s injuries meant he could only be in one place at a time. Robyn was good, but she couldn’t double for the Grandmaster. Still, he had managed in the end.

He glanced over the paper in his hand once more, pleased.

_ Father, _

_ I am afraid Mentor Kenway is not quite the out and outer I had thought him to be. He is a most terrible dancer! I have taken the liberty of providing him a caper master. He is not much for civil whiskers;  truthfully, I found him cross as crabs and would have given him the cut direct if I did not think he would  raise a breeze. I was near sick as a cushion from having to swallow my spleen; you will understand when I say I have  never been so glad for the end of a waltz, when in the regular manner of things I would have been ever so pleased to see it outside Vienna! Father, if you make me entertain him again, I fear you shall find me a malt above water and entirely disreputable, a tragedy of the highest degree, I assure you. _

_ Your Affectionate Daughter, _

_ Robyn _

Shay smiled grimly, tearing the letter to shreds and scattering the fragments on the winds. Connor had recovered at last, and the Grandmaster could finally loose the reins.

* * *

  
“We were wrong,” Shay said bitterly. “Bowdoin will never listen to reason.”

Daniel Shays nodded, his face drawn. “This army intends to destroy us for daring to protect the people from immediate ruin.” The Massachusetts farmer was a good man, kind and genuine. He believed deeply in the regulator cause to which his surname had been given. Of the rebellion leaders, he was the calmer one, less prone to violence. That had been invaluable when Shay was trying to hold the Regulators back, but could have been a liability now that he was ready for them to move. _I’ll have to thank Lincoln_ , Shay thought dryly, _and Connor._ The two had done all the persuading for him.

“I wonder what they promised,” the Grandmaster mused now, “to convince those merchants to part with their coin?” Nothing, if Shay was right. The Regulators had the merchants scared. Hopefully, the delegates would be too.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Luke Day snapped. “They mean to take our land and parcel it out amongst themselves!”

Eli Parsons nodded somberly. “I’m afraid you’re right, Luke. Miserly as they are, I can imagine no other cause for their sudden generosity!”

_No? _Shay thought dryly. Aloud, he said, “Transactions of public affairs do tend to involve the common people in a state of slavery.” It was a popular Revolution slogan, one coined by the same men the Regulators now fought. It would serve their cause as well as it had the Patriots.

Luke’s face grew dark. “This government has shown its rule to be that of tyranny. It cannot be allowed to stand.” Of the three leaders, he was by far the most intense and the most eager for combat. He ran his men in strict order. A possible problem, but one easily taken care of.

“I agree,” Daniel said solemnly. “We must stand firm against the cruel hand of tyranny, as we have done before.”

“We are the body of the people,” Luke pronounced grandly. “All the land stands with us.”

_The men who toil on it, at least_ , Shay corrected mentally. The merchants obviously didn’t.

“We are the majority,” Eli affirmed. “A proper government must answer to the greater number of the people.”

_Tyranny of the majority_ , Shay thought wryly. As this rebellion proved, listening to the ‘greater number of people’, as Eli had put it, was a terrible idea. Pity the Assassins couldn’t see that. People could never be trusted, selfish as they were; unchecked, they always turned to chaos. The Templars understood that.

Focused, however, the people were a useful tool in the path toward their own improvement.

“We must turn to the people, then,” Daniel said, “and ask that they immediately assemble in arms to support and maintain the rights, the lives, and the liberties of the people. Let us end this tyrannical government of Massachusetts.”

Shay hid a smirk. These men were earnest, but they had little thought beyond the present. Daniel didn’t have the slightest idea as to what constituted a proper government, and Luke and Eli had little more. Fortunately, the Grandmaster _did_ , though his plans extended a good ways beyond Massachusetts.

_They’re good men_ , Shay thought again, looking over his three companions. Hopefully they would escape the coming fights unscathed. John Hancock would be running for governor again this year, and would undoubtedly win. _Wise John ,_ Shay thought fondly. _You’ll pardon them eventually_. There was simply too much sympathy for the Regulator’s cause. A year from now,these men would return to their lives, and their rebellion would be but a footnote in a greater history.

“We will need arms,” Shay noted, “better than we have.”

“We take the armory,” Luke said coldly, “then march directly to Boston and burn the nest of devils to the ground.”

Daniel frowned pensively. “I can convince the Hampshire committee; my name seems to have become one of import, though I know not why.” _Did they name it for you_ , Shay wondered wryly, _or for me? Shays’ or Shay’s?_ It was true either way. Shay Cormac had brought the rebellion together and led it from the shadows, but Daniel Shays served as their figurehead and rallying force.

“We can gather in West Springfield,” Luke suggested. “We’ve been there before and know the city well.”

“We’ll want to surround them,” Daniel said thoughtfully, “come at them from both sides.”

“Palmer,” Eli decided. “A second company can be staged there, and a third force at Chicopee bridge.”

“A good plan,” the Grandmaster agreed. It was. It might even work, had he been inclined to allow it. As it was… “When do we strike?” The Assassins had to have the opportunity to end at least one Templar plan.

“The 25th,” Daniel determined, and the meeting adjourned.

* * *

Once again, it was a matter of delay. _Delay, and the right messenger,_ Shay amended. The militia needed to be warned. More importantly, the Assassins needed to be warned. _Someone_ had to keep matters from getting out of hand, and the Grandmaster was occupied here.

_Now, Mentor Kenway_ , Shay thought wryly, _where is your spy?_ The Assassins had one, of course. Possibly more. The rebellion was practically on their doorstep, after all. Shay paused. _Now that is a thought…_ He couldn’t afford to indulge in revenge, obviously, but if the opportunity arose, or a distraction was needed…

He shook his head, setting the matter aside. The Grandmaster had other concerns right now.

Shay activated his Eagle Vision, strolling casually through the gathered men. He stayed to groups and shadows, ever present but unseen. ‘Hide in plain sight,’ Hope had taught him, all those years ago, as they wandered through the streets of New York. “Walk as one of them,” she had told him, her voice firm, cool, and kind, “be one of them, and they will never see you coming.”

Shay had laughed then, and she had chided him for not taking his lessons seriously. “How do you plan to be an Assassin, if you refuse to learn? You have so much potential, Shay. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

_I’ve learned my lessons, Hope,_ the Grandmaster thought ironically. _It only took being a Templar to do it._ To survive his former comrades, he had had to become better than any of them. Shay had once walked through a crowded, guarded palace, teeming with Assassins searching for the traitor who had murdered one of their own in full view of every one of them. No one had seen him do it. No one saw him leave. No one ever did now, unless Shay wished them to.

Connor’s Assassins were no different. The Grandmaster watched the red-tinted man mediating a dispute between two of the Regulators in an Irish accent more true than Shay’s own. He seemed the calm, serious sort; a good choice for a messenger. If Shay were being honest, the Assassin reminded him of Liam.

Duncan Little. The man’s uncle had been an Assassin too, one Haytham had killed, if Shay recalled correctly. Grandmaster Kenway had learned as much as he could about his son’s recruits, and Shay had spent nearly a year following up on that information. Knowledge was power, after all, something both Templars and Assassins understood.

Shay laid his hand unconsciously on his pistol, eyes cold. Lack of information could be fatal, as those who had fallen to his pistols had learned. He was glad to have them back; the damn things were incredibly finicky. Fortunately, Thomas was as skilled with steel as he was with silver. It was, Shay mused, another downside to using an antique weapon – well, a recreation of one – but the age of the design was yet another reason the pistols were so useful.

No one expected to be shot with a weapon designed a hundred years before… and no one ever expected to be shot twice.

Little was finishing his mediation now, the Regulators leaving satisfied. Shay took it as his cue, blending with the departing crowd. He allowed himself a smug smile as he merged seamlessly with the gathered men. Matters were finally in hand again. Not that it had ever been otherwise. Shay had won long before the Assassins knew there was a game to be played.

* * *

  
When Luke Day’s forces were inexplicably delayed the morning of the attack, Duncan Little was chosen to relay the information to Daniel Shays. Unsurprisingly, the message never arrived.


	30. 1787:Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I got three more kudos, and someone favorited on Fanfiction.net, I decided to be nice and post the next chapter. Getting the one after will require a review though. I’m posting this to become a better writer. Critiques help!

Chapter 4

* * *

“Day seemed to choose me at random,” Duncan explained.

“No.” Connor scowled at the paper in his hand. “The traitor did this. He’s there – and he wants us to know of the attack.”

“But why?” the Irish Assassin wondered. “he started this revolt; does he  want it to fail?”

“I think he does,” Connor mused. “I think it was always his plan.”

Duncan frowned. “And Cormac wants us to stop it for him,” he said, putting the pieces together.

Connor nodded, scowling. “He intends this rebellion to go to a point, but no further.” It seemed so obvious now. He had known the rebellion was a feint, designed to frighten the delegates, but not how Cormac intended to control it. “We will simply have to stop it early.”

“Why  are we stopping it?” Duncan questioned. “If that’s what the Templars want?”

“Assassins protect the people,” Connor reminded him. “Cormac knows this; he was one of us once. If we sacrifice Shepard, we are  just  as wrong as they.” Besides, the more Connor considered the matter, the more obvious it was there could be no victory for the Assassins here. Whatever the result, the Grandmaster had achieved his end. He would not have been so quick to tip his hand otherwise. The Assassins would lose nothing they had not already lost by doing the right thing, however much the situation galled Connor’s pride.

“You’re right,” Duncan sighed. “It’s too easy to lose sight of  why we’re fighting sometimes.”

“Especially when our enemies use it against us,” Connor acknowledged ruefully. “I don’t suppose there is  anyway to stop the attack  before it happens?” 

Duncan shook his head. “Day got delayed at the last minute; the attack will come in a few hours. The men should already be on the march.”

Connor sighed. It had been a futile hope; the traitor had played them too well. “We cannot delay longer. We must warn Shepard.”

* * *

The Springfield militia was huddled in the armory, wary of an impending attack. Connor frowned as he gazed up at the imposing walls. As nervous as they were, the men guarding the fort were unlikely to simply allow the Assassins in. The two men would have to find another way.

The two men carefully traversed the deep drifts of snow. “We could use this,” Duncan noted. “Pile it right, and the  Shaysites will have to walk in the open.”

  
Connor nodded. “Suggest it to Shepard,” he said as they approached the wall. The two men climbed quickly, clinging to the small gaps between the bricks. As they neared the top, Connor activated his Eagle Vision. “Move right,” he murmured, doing so. Below, Duncan did the same. A moment later, the two men were inside.

Carefully, they slipped through the armory, avoiding patrols as they approached Shepard’s command center. From hiding, Connor whistled sharply, drawing the guard away. Unseen, he entered the room, Duncan behind. “Shepard.”

The Commander looked up, startled. “Mentor Connor! How did you –”

“Shays and his rebels intend to attack this afternoon,” Connor interrupted.

Shepard stiffened. “I see. We need to move quickly then. What do you know of their plans?”

“We intercepted a message from Day,” Duncan said, “asking Shays to delay. His force won’t be attacking. The plan was to flank you from you from three sides; Shays and his men don’t know it won’t happen.”

“If that is so, perhaps I could convince them to stand down,” Shepard mused.

“I doubt it will be possible,” Connor said sadly. Not so long as Shay Cormac led the rebels.

“I have to try,” the Commander said firmly. “I fought with these men; I won’t fire unless I must.” The Assassin inclined his head, understanding the man’s reluctance well.

“I f you have to,” Duncan said softly, “it will be easier if they’re in the open. You should have your men use the snow to control the rebels march.”

“I will give the order,” Shepard agreed, standing up. “Gentlemen, I am in your debt once more.”

Connor shook his head. “These men are led by a Templar, one of my Order’s enemies. In stopping these rebels, we are allies.”

Shepard frowned. “That could change things,” he warned. “Do you expect him to join the assault?”

“No,” Connor said, utterly certain. “He wants the attack to fail.”

“Then why attack at all?” Shepard demanded.

“So as to achieve his true goal,” Connor explained. “A new government – one which will answer to him.”

“In Massachusetts?” Shepard asked blankly. “We’re just one State!”

“But a State which will have great sway at the convention in May.”

The Commander’s eyes widened. “But that –”

“If he can sway the delegates,” Duncan said quietly, “he will become this Nation’s ruler in all but name.”

Shepard’s eyes hardened. “You have my  aid, in whatever manner I may give it. I did not fight for freedom to bend knee to a hidden tyrant.”

“Pledge yourself to the Creed,” Connor offered, “and join us in our war. ”

“I would be honored,” Shepard replied. “When this is over, and my duty here done, I shall do so.”

“Agreed,” Connor accepted simply.

“Welcome, brother,” Duncan said, clasping the Commander’s hand. “We’re glad to have you.”

“And I to join so noble a cause,” Shepard replied. “Now, you have told me a little about the Templars, but I would know more. Who is our enemy? What does he intend?”

“His name is Shay Cormac,” Connor replied, “Grandmaster of the American Rite. He means to seize control of this Nation, and we cannot allow him to succeed.”

* * *

They stood beside Shepard at the armory gates, watching the  Shaysite force struggle through the snow. “Fire over their heads,” Shepard ordered.

The cannons boomed, smoke hovering in the cold Massachusetts air. In the silence  following, Daniel Shays’ voice could be heard, strong and clear. “March, damn you! March!”

“Again!” cried Shepard. The cannons boomed a second time, ash staining the pristine snow, the sound like the thunder of a storm not come. The rebels marched forward.

“At waist height,” ordered Shepard sorrowfully, “with grapeshot!”  Again, the cannons boomed beneath the bloody, sunset sky, and again after. Smoke and ash filled the air and the sound of grapeshot on flesh. Cries of alarm and wails of pain shattered the air, and the thunder of the cannons rolled. The rebels broke and fled at last, and the cannons were silent.

The sun set over the bloodied field: four men dead and twenty wounded. “Woe is mine,” the Commander whispered in the twilight cold, “for I have slain my brethren.”


	31. 1787: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

“Now is the time,” Lincoln announced. The General had arrived at Springfield a scant few days after the attack. They had chased the rebels on from there, and the army was now resting at Hadley. “The rebels are still dismayed by their loss at the Armory, and we have given them little time to rest. If we strike hard and fast, and by surprise, we can end this here –  tonight .”

“With all due respect, sir,” Duncan said, “the rebels are at  Petersham , some thirty miles from here.”

“Just so,” Lincoln agreed. “We will march through the night and take them by surprise before dawn.”

“It is snowing,” Connor noted dryly. “Badly.” It was a significant understatement – the ‘snow’ was a proper New England Nor’easter, with high winds, bits of hail, and flurries of snow so strong you could hardly see.

Lincoln’s smile was colder than the storm. “And  that is why they will never see us coming.”

Connor frowned, looking out at the white gale. “It will be tricky,” he reflected. “We will have to be careful and move slow. Our enemies may not be able to see us, but only because we can scarcely see each other.”

“I know,” the General admitted. “But we march all the same.”

“Sir,” Duncan said, but Connor let the other Assassin’s voice fade from his  awarness , activating his Eagle Vision, as he had done several times this night and others. He looked through the window, eyes narrowing. There was a small patch, by the eaves, that had been partially sheltered. The winds had not struck it hard so there, where the drifts had not passed, Connor could see a faint indent highlighted in his Vision.  A  bootprint . Ignoring the conversation behind him, the Assassin opened the window, frigid air rushing through.

“Connor?” Duncan asked.

“A spy,” the Assassin replied, as he slid out into the cold. The winds buffeted him, nearly knocking Connor from his perch. Gritting his teeth against the chill, he pulled himself up the wall with rapidly numbing fingers, struggling to keep hold. He neared the roof and paused, readying himself, before silently launching at his foe.

Cormac was already rolling away, his white coat blending with the snowy sheets. “How did you know?” he asked mildly.

“Your boot left a mark,” Connor answered, edging toward the traitor. “You will not warn them.”

Cormac stepped back, face blank, eyes wary. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Connor leapt forward as the Grandmaster fell back, wise to the trick.  He always flees, the Assassin thought angrily, grasping at his enemy as they fell. “Why won’t you fight?!”

“It’s a fool’s game!” The traitor snapped, extending his Blade. He slashed at the Assassin’s arm, forcing Connor to release his grip. 

The Assassin retaliated, kicking out as he released the Blade in his boot. He smirked as he felt resistance, knowing the blow had landed. The Grandmaster’s face grew taut with pain, but he used the opportunity strike a blow of his own. 

The base of his palm struck Connor’s chin, the follow - up driving  the  air from his lungs. Dazed, the Assassin barely managed to roll into his landing. At the other end of the courtyard Cormac stood, favoring his right leg.  _Good_ , Connor thought vindictively.  _ I hope it does not heal. _ It would be an ironic justice if it did not.

The Grandmaster raised his pistol and Connor dodged, the shot hitting the wall beside him.  Not aimed to kill, he noted as he dodged the second shot seconds later.  _ How– ! _ a second weapon. The traitor would need to reload now. The Assassin ran forward. 

The winds abruptly shifted, sending a cascade of snow through the courtyard. Cursing, Connor activated his Eagle Vision, chasing after his enemy’s red glow. A third shot forced him to the ground, his Vision flickering out. Cormac had reloaded quickly, and the Assassin braced himself for the second shot.

It never came.

Connor cursed vividly, reactivating his Vision as he ran forward, but the trick had done its job. Shay Cormac had vanished  again and the Assassin did not have time to track him. 

_He was limping_ , Connor recalled as he turned back. Hopefully , the injury would delay the traitor long enough for Lincoln’s plan to succeed.

“We need to leave now,” he said as he reentered the Command center. “the spy is injured, but he escaped. If we intend to surprise the rebels, we will need to beat him there.”

* * *

The journey through the Nor’easter was as fraught as Connor had feared. Gusts of wind tore through the lines at sixty knots, slamming into the men as they staggered through the blinding sheets of falling snow. Deep drifts tripped them up, each step breaking through feet of powder. By morning , some of the men would lose fingers and toes. They marched on all the same, duty driving them forward.

Connor kept his Eagle Vision active, his other sight providing him with better visibility. For  a brief moment , as the men reached the open road, the Assassin could have sworn he glimpsed a red glow. But his focus had to remain on the troops, and when he looked again, it was gone.  _ I will see you in  Petersham ,  _ he promised.

Connor felt a sudden surge of satisfaction, knowing his guess had been right. Cormac wanted the rebellion ended, yes, but on  _ his _ schedule. A successful attack on the armory would have made the rebellion too powerful, but a defeat tonight would destroy it months before the Convention.

_He still needs me_ , Connor noted, recalling the non-lethal attacks. After tonight, that would no longer be so. Ready, the Assassin turned his face to the wind, and marched on through the storm.

It was nearly dawn when a half-frozen scout returned with word. “We’re nearly there, sir. They haven’t any guards; must think no one would be mad enough to brave  this gale.”

Lincoln smiled coldly. “Good. The cannon is ready?”

Connor had thought the General foolish for trying to bring artillery, but he had been proven wrong. The cannon had been laid on sledges and pushed over the frozen snow. If anything, the artillery had had an easier time than the troops.

“Armed and ready, sir!” The artillery chief proclaimed.

“Then I believe it is time we brought this rebellion to an end.” Lincoln’s eyes narrowed, as he gazed furiously into the swirling snow. “Forward march!” Slowly, the three thousand  strong - platoon moved toward the town.  When they could just see the outermost houses, Lincoln called a halt, ordering his men into formation. Merchants and  businessmen they might have been, but they were soldiers trained on the battlefields of the Revolution , and soon ordered themselves as commanded.

“They are good men,” Connor told the General.

“As good as any I have ever commanded,” Lincoln agreed. He raised his head and bellowed, “Fire!” The cannons spurted flame and ash, as the men raised their muskets. The battle had begun.

Connor charged into the fray, seeking the rebel leaders. Somewhere in this  town Shays, Day and Parsons were hiding. If he could find them, this rebellion would be over.

Petersham was bedlam. Lincoln’s forces charged through the streets in the pre-dawn light, while the  Shaysite force, roughly woken, haphazardly retreated. Connor took to the rooftops, hoping to avoid the greater part of the battle.

A flash of red and white caught his eye as he leapt over the rooftops, and the Assassin’s eyes narrowed. The traitor had made it after all, albeit just too late. Connor ducked behind a chimney using his Vision to track the Grandmaster. Where Cormac was, the rebel leaders would be.

“–to go!” Cormac was saying as Connor readied himself to attack. The Grandmaster’s eyes widened as the Assassin leaped. The Templar slammed into the leaders, knocking them aside as Connor landed, Hidden Blades just missing his targets. “Move!”  T he Traitor cried, dropping a metal ball.

Connor cursed as the air filled with smoke, obscuring his sight. He reactivated his Eagle Vision, moving through the caustic cloud.  _ How did he know? _ The Assassin wondered. He was certain Cormac had not noticed him before the attack. This wasn’t the first time either; the Grandmaster had somehow known of Connor’s attack earlier that night. _But how?_

The answer came in a memory spurred by the falling snow. “ _ If my Vision can tell me who an enemy is and where they go, maybe it could tell me before I saw them?” _ the traitor had told Connor years before, when he had still thought the other man an ally.

  
_He knew I would attack in Maryland,_ Connor realized with dawning horror.  _ And at Middleton’s. Even when we first met. He always knew, **before he ever saw me**! _

Shay Cormac knew when an attack was coming. There could be no other answer. A true salvation for a man hunted by Assassins, Connor supposed. The Brotherhood’s primary weapons were surprise and stealth, both rendered useless by the traitor’s Gift.  _No wonder he has killed so many._ But  forewarned, Connor would know not to rely on his usual tricks and could  actually surprise the Grandmaster.

He scanned the area as he ran, searching for the familiar red figure. He found dozens, fighting with and fleeing from blue-tinted men. The Assassin cursed. There were too many enemies here to pick out one. The leaders, though… Connor ran after the golden targets and the lone red figure who followed them.

Cormac glanced back, sensing Connor again. “Scatter!” the Grandmaster ordered his allies. “It’s you he’s after; he can track you!” The three men obeyed, racing down separate streets. 

Connor scowled.  Marking had been Cormac’s trick first; he knew its weaknesses well. But the Assassin had learned some tricks of his own. He narrowed his focus on Daniel Shays. If he could only take one leader, let it be the figurehead.

But first , he had to deal with the traitor. The Grandmaster dropped a second metal ball as Connor approached, then hurried away. Instinct made the Assassin hesitate, wary. He reached for his mask-

The grenade exploded in a sudden burst of flame, throwing the Assassin back. He rolled with the blast, leaping to his feet and resuming the chase. Cormac _was_ trying to kill him now; one way or another, they both knew the rebellion was ending tonight.

The traitor had vanished again, Connor noted irritably, but it did not matter. Shays was his target, not the grandmaster. The Assassin ran after the glowing rebel leader, chasing him through the city’s streets.

Brigid hurtled out of the sky, talons extended, shrieking her rage. She scored the Assassin’s face , and Connor raised his arms to deflect the powerful blows of her  wings. Roughly, he shoved the eagle away.  _ You should not have given your loyalty to  him _ , Connor thought angrily at the creature’s spirit.

A faint shadow was his only warning as a white clad figure slammed down  from above . The Assassin barely blocked the traitor’s Blades, sharp tips leaving twin cuts just over his jugulars. Then they were grappling, twisting and turning, trading blows, rolling through the icy snow. 

Connor’s breath caught as the traitor drove a fist into his  chest , Hidden Blade scraping along his ribs. The Assassin retaliated, grabbing Cormac’s hand and forcing it down. The Grandmaster had cunning and experience, but Connor had youth and strength. In a fight like this, there could only be one victor.

The Assassin drove the Grandmaster into the ground, readying his Blade, the world beginning to shatter.  Shay Cormac glared back at him, unflinching, unbending, in the face of death. “I should have killed you long ago!” the Templar spat.

Connor froze. In a heartbeat , he was in New York, in another battle, a fortress burning around him. Another Grandmaster lay before him, gray hair bound with red ribbon, blue-gray eyes meeting the brown of the son who killed him. “ Raké:ni …” the Assassin whispered, his grip loosening of its own volition.

A brilliant green cloud erupted. Connor choked, falling back and covering his face as time and sense returned. This was  not Fort George , and Cormac was  not Haytham. The Assassin cursed his folly, allowing words to distract him so. He coughed again, lungs burning from the poison gas, forcing himself forward.

Cormac was back on his feet, dropping another grenade. Connor swore, leaping toward the traitor, a deadly promise in his eyes. The ball exploded as he rolled forward, shrapnel slicing through  robes and skin, but he was still on his enemy’s heels. 

  
Daniel Shays, unfortunately, had long since escaped, just as Cormac had intended. Connor would just have to track the rebel later.

Connor kept close to Cormac, his lungs burning with every step, knowing better than to give the Grandmaster space. In close combat , the Assassin held the advantage; he was younger, stronger, and capable of enduring more. Cormac was a distance fighter, preferring darts and pistols, and his leg was injured. He would flag long before the Assassin would; so long as Connor stayed near, he would win.

Cormac shot at the Assassin as he ran, dodging between buildings. Connor avoided the shot, never ceasing his forward motion. They were reaching the edge of town now, the woods coming into view.

A man leaped from a roof above. “No!” Connor shouted, knowing he was too late. A shot rang out and Duncan fell, bleeding heavily. Distantly, Connor noted again the speed at which the Grandmaster reloaded.  _ A dangerous skill _ , he noted,  grabbing a bandage from his belt.

“I’ll be fine,” Duncan gasped, as Connor wrapped the tourniquet tight. “Just stop him.”

The Assassin nodded, following the bloody trail as the traitor entered the wood. The trees closed about them as the sun rose and the winds and snow with it.

The chase continued.


	32. 1787: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Shay limped through the woods, leaving a bloody trail behind. Connor was still far too close; shooting the other Assassin had not bought him nearly as much time as he’d hoped. The Grandmaster knew he’d been lucky to escape before – whatever had caused the boy to freeze, Shay was grateful for it. He doubted he would be so fortunate a second time.

_At least Daniel, Luke and Eli escaped,_ Shay consoled himself. So long as part of the Regulators, however small, continued through to the Convention, he was certain all but the most recalcitrant delegates could be persuaded. _We’ve seeded well,_ Shay acknowledged. _So long as we’re wise, not even the Assassins can prevent the harvest._ The Brotherhood could hardly kill _all_ the delegates, after all.

And if Shay had to die for their plans to be… well, at least he died knowing the world would be that much better for his deeds. Thomas would continue his work and the Order _would_ see the truth.

Of course, he’d prefer not to die at all.

Shay shot at Connor, then shot again, using the bullets to distract as he dropped another grenade. Much as he might wish to show the Assassin the weapon’s power, he was too low on ammunition to risk it. Even with his Vision, the storm made it too hard to see. For once seeing through objects was a curse; he was more likely to hit a tree than the boy.

The Grandmaster stumbled as the grenade went off, his injured leg unable to take the force of the blast. **_Damn_** _that Footblade,_ Shay thought angrily for the umpteenth time. He could have escaped a dozen times over without the injury. As it was, he was just glad Hope’s little concoction was still slowing the Assassin down. Shay fired again, not bothering to look where he knew the Assassin was. A brief cry let him know his aim had been true. _At least Brigid is safe,_ he thought grimly as the snow began to pick up again. _Robyn’ll care for her._

The wind rose, and the snow fell in sheets, obscuring his vision. Pity he had taught the Assassin to _mark_ ; Connor could never have tracked him without it. But since he _could…_

Shay smiled as he emerged from the trees, feeling the shape of the ground changing beneath his feet. _Finally!_ He slowed slightly as he traversed the uneven terrain. _Let him think me weary._ Not hard, seeing as he _was._ Out in the open the winds were worse, buffeting him badly. The mask over his face served a dual purpose this morning and the Grandmaster was grateful for it. He slowed further as he continued to move out, giving his leg some relief as he waited.

He did not wait long. The whispers rose and Shay fired at their warning. Connor dodged, seemingly anticipating the attack. The Grandmaster raised a brow. _Interesting._ So Mentor Kenway had figured it out, had he?

The Assassin lunged, and Shay dodged, taking a deep breath. As the boy landed, the Grandmaster fired once more, the ice beneath them shattering at the impact. He didn’t have time to savor Connor’s horrified expression, as they were both sent hurtling into the frozen waters below.

Years ago, as a young man, Shay had sailed the Arctic and Australian seas. On occasion, he’d even swum among the ice flows. It still was not enough to prepare him for the cold. _Ever swum a frozen river, Mentor Kenway?_ The Grandmaster thought wryly, as he swam under the ice. Even _he_ hadn’t done this often, mostly because it was a good way to drown or freeze – or both, for that matter. Usually, he wasn’t doing it on purpose either.

Shay knew he had a minute, maybe less, before he grew too cold to continue. That was fine; it was all he needed. He shoved the pistol back into its holster – Thomas would kill him if he lost it – exchanging it for the dagger. He headed for the center of the river, allowing the currents to do the greater part of the work. The ice was thinnest in the center, and he slammed his dagger into it, using the weapon as an anchor as he launched himself through the thin sheet, jagged edges cutting at his exposed skin. His head broke the surface, and he breathed deep as his numbing hands caught the sharp edge of the broken ice. Slowly, carefully, the Grandmaster pulled himself out of the water. The damaged surface crackled under his weight, but Shay _knew_ ice, knew it as well as he did his own hands. His time in the North had taught him well. He shifted his body slowly, laying spread eagled, carefully sliding across to the far side of the river. Travelling like this, even a bear could cross the ice.

Shay pushed himself, moving as quickly as he dared. If Connor had survived – his heart twanged, knowing the boy probably hadn’t – it was better that the Grandmaster not be anywhere near. The water would have erased his _mark_ ; he wasn’t going to give the boy a chance to replace it.

Shay staggered to his feet as reached the shore, tired and cold. But he couldn’t rest. Resting meant death. He had to keep moving. It reminded him, as it always did, of the day he killed Hope. She had poisoned him, his heart slowing as it took hold. Only by constantly moving had he survived until he took the antidote from her corpse. Today the antidote was heat, something he lacked.

The Grandmaster flexed his hands continuously as he walked, forcing the blood to keep circulating. He removed the wet mask, replacing it with the dry one he kept sealed in his satchel for exactly this situation. He did the same with his gloves. The rest of his garb was made of oilcloth, and had remained nearly dry, but ice crackled with every step he took. He _needed_ to get warm.

At least the Nor’easter was finally dying down, and the cold had caused his wound to congeal.

Shay stumbled into the campsite he had prepared when the Shaysites had first retreated to Petersham. Years of experience had taught him the necessity of always having a safe place prepared. He moved toward a large snow drift, seemingly identical to the others. Looks could be deceiving. He carefully moved aside a ball of snow, hiding the opening to the igloo. His time in the far north had taught him more than just how to survive frozen rivers. The people there made homes from snow, some permanent, some temporary. Shay crawled inside his own, sealing the entryway behind him.

The Grandmaster pulled out his flint, striking up the prepared fire. His hands were clumsy, frostnip beginning to turn to frostbite. He _needed_ to get warm. The fire caught quickly, to Shay’s relief. He fed it carefully, opening the smoke hole when it had gotten to a proper size, before beginning the arduous process of changing into the spare clothes he had left in the shelter. By the time he was done, the igloo had warmed nicely.

_I survived,_ Shay realized, laughing, the thought making him giddy. He was shaking, he realized, as he put up the kettle. Not from cold – well, maybe a little cold – but from relief. _I’m alive._ Now that the crisis was over, his adrenaline fading, all the suppressed emotions were returning.

“I’m alive,” Shay repeated out loud, not bothering to hide his awe. There was no one here but himself, after all.

Later, after he had drunk the hot tea and become warm in truth, he found himself wondering if Connor had survived as well. It would be better if the Assassin perished in the icy water, but… _I hope he did,_ Shay admitted, as he let himself rest at last. _I hope you did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Arctic and Australian Seas: The Arctic and Antarctic seas. Antarctica was known as Australia at the time and Australia was New Holland. No, not confusing at all.
> 
> Igloo: ice house, which I assume you knew. I wonder what Shay was doing in Greenland?
> 
> Frostnip: the step before frostbite. If you get this, get somewhere warm. Otherwise digit loss may follow.
> 
> AUthor's Note: This is a short chapter, so I'll be nice. If I don't get a review in a week's time I'll update anyway.


	33. 1787: Chapter 7

1787: Chapter 7

* * *

Shay gave himself a day to  recover, and spent the next searching for the remains of the  Shaysite militia.  _ Brigid’s eyes would have made matters easier _ , the Grandmaster mused ruefully, as he approached a small encampment. Unfortunately, Connor had injured her wing , and the harsh storm winds had not helped. Robyn was tending to his partner in  Petersham , and sending him messages through the Eagle’s eyes.

The  Shaysite camp was a motley of small tents housing, perhaps, ten or fifteen men. They’d posted sentries, for the little good it did. It was the fourth such band Shay had found and between them he had begun to build a decent - sized force, though he’d need one larger still for what he had in mind.  The surprise attack had all but ended the rebellion. While earlier than planned, the  Shaysites had done what the Grandmaster needed, but a few more incidents wouldn’t go amiss. Daniel, Luke and Eli had escaped to Vermont, and if Shay was heading north anyway…

_ And it will distract Connor nicely _ , Shay thought. The Assassin had survived both the poison and the river, though it would be a week or more before he  fully  recovered …  or so Robyn had cheerfully informed Brigid – and Shay, through the eagle. With the rebellion over, the Templars would need to find another way to keep the Assassins occupied and away from their affairs – at least until they could eliminate their enemies completely.

_Which I don’t especially want to do_ , Shay admitted reluctantly. He could; he had done it before and likely would again. But he didn’t  want to. Making it clear he  could , though…

_Oh, who am I fooling_ , the Grandmaster acknowledged ruefully. This was revenge, plain and simple. Connor had nearly destroyed Shay’s  Rite, and murdered his friends and brothers. Shay had waited patiently, his plans coming first. But now… now , the bill was due.

The Grandmaster entered the camp, stride firm despite his limp. A hemlock frond fluttered in the red band of his hat. The Regulators stiffened at his approach. “At ease,” Shay called. “I’m one of you.”

“What do you want?” one of the men demanded.

Shay smiled grimly. “Daniel’s fled north. I’m thinking we ought to join him – and maybe get some revenge for Lincoln’s sorry trick along the way.”

“Aye,” another man agreed. “Coming through a storm like that!”

“Revenge…” the first man said thoughtfully. “How?”   


Shay smirked. “Lincoln had a man helping – Native, in a white hood – and I’ve no doubt he’s the cause of the raid’s success. I was spying when he struck my  leg, and couldn’t  get back in time because of it. Things might’ve gone otherwise if I had,” he added ruefully.

“This man – why should we help you avenge yourself on him?” a third Regulator asked.

Shay scowled. “Why not? By stopping my message, he allowed Lincoln to succeed. And you’ve naught else to do on the way to New Hampshire, do you?” Not that Daniel was  in New Hampshire, but Vermont was in the wrong direction.

“Not really,” the first man admitted sheepishly.

“ I’d like revenge,” the second agreed. “Make them Government bastard s hurt for once!”

The third frowned. “It won’t take us out of the way?”

“No,” Shay assured him. “It’s right near the border.” Assuming you were going to New Hampshire.

“Then I’m in,” the third man agreed. 

Shay smiled. “Head to Rockport. You should find the rest of the force there.”

“We’re attacking Rockport?” the second man asked eagerly.

“No,” Shay said grimly. “What we’re after is a bit above.”

* * *

The Grandmaster met his men, now a small army, near the city of Rockport. He led them carefully through the woods he had once known as well as he knew his face. It surprised  him, how little they had changed. But why should they have? The trees had been here before he had ever walked among them , and they would be here long after he had passed beyond this world. It was a humbling thought.

Shay bade them a silent farewell. Whatever happened now, he had no intention of ever walking amongst them again.

His force arrived at the edge of the woods , and Shay smiled grimly. “Wait,” he warned the men. Assuming George  Monro had gotten the message to his brothers…

For the third time in Shay’s lifetime, mortars fell on Davenport. “Charge!” the Grandmaster ordered, and the  Shaysites did.

Shay moved purposefully through the chaos of the battlefield. Some of the settlers were fleeing, while others tried to protect their homes. He could hear the cries of dismay as the buildings began to catch fire, the winter winds spreading the flames. A well-aimed mortar knocked the windmill askew, and another left a gaping hole in the church.  _ Let him see what it’s like to return home to devastation, _ the Grandmaster thought grimly. The thought almost surprised him with its vindictiveness.

From the corner of his eye, Shay could see the Assassins emerging from their dorms. The attack had surprised them, as he had hoped.  _ They never expect us at their gates, _ he thought smugly. They hadn’t last time either.

A sudden shriek of  whispers was his only warning but, after all these years , they were all the warning he needed. He swung around, dodging a crossbow bolt.  _Crossbow! Shit!_ Shay’s eyes widened, and he twisted his wrist, praying he could retract the Blade in time.  _ Why is he here? _

His hand slammed into the Guillaume’s chest, the right Blade retracting just in time. The left was slower, cutting deep wound across the boy’s face. The world shattered.

“Guillaume,” Shay breathe d , genuinely relieved.

“Monsieur Shay,” the French boy replied. “Ironic it should be you to end my life.”

“Not today,” Shay replied. He bent down as the world began to reform. “Don’t go back to France , Guillaume.  Please. ” He slammed his hands against the boy’s temples, knocking him out as the battlefield returned.

The whispers screamed as it did, and Shay swung true, his Blades burying themselves in his assailant’s chest. He had no reason to spare the other Assassins. The world shattered, and he sighed. 

“You!” The Assassin before him spat. “It was you that day.  You who murdered my father, traitor!”

“Your…” Shay blinked, startled, and frowned at the Assassin. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he said blankly.

“The Silent Shadow,”  Atas á :ta snarled. “It is what his brothers called him!”

“Oh.” Shay said, suddenly weary. “I remember. He was a good Assassin; he’d be proud of you.” The world was reforming,  Atas á :ta dying. It was too late to do anything more.

“There is a special fate for men like you, traitor. Someday , you shall answer for your sins, and my spirit will be watching as yours cries in pain between the realms!”

“So be it,” Shay said, as the battlefield began to return.  Ad é wal é had said something similar; it had changed nothing then , it changed nothing now. The Grandmaster reached down, shutting the Assassin’s eyes. “Rest in peace,” he murmured. He owed this broken child that, at least.

The whispers screamed as the last of the in-between faded. Shay shot without looking, almost expecting it when the world shattered. “Again?” he muttered, turning toward the man he’d shot. 

He still had a chance, Shay noted, oddly relieved; the ball had lodged in the Assassin’s abdomen. “Be still,” he warned. “Gut wounds don’t have to be fatal.”

Colley shook his head, his odd hat tilted askew. “You’ve pierced the intestine.”

“Ah,” Shay said, regretful. “I’ll make this quick then.”

“Wait,” Colley said, his face pale. “I have a request.”

“Ask,” Shay replied, too wise now to promise.

“Whatever government it is you’re trying to create – make sure it serves the  people , not just your Order.”

“I intend to,” Shay said as he fired again, glad it was a request he could keep. He was still working on Liam’s.

_ I’ll have to be careful _ , he noted as the world reformed. He was nearly out of ammunition, and most ball wouldn’t fit his pistols. The downside of using reconstructed antiques. He shot again as the whispers screamed, unsurprised when the world shattered for the fourth time.

“I  told Connor he should have killed you years ago,” Robert snapped. “Told Achilles, too.”

“And I should not have spared  you ,” Shay countered, “nor Achilles. We’re all fools sometimes.” He frowned down at the old seaman. The ball had shattered the  femur, but missed the artery. “Lucky for you, seems I’ve not learned my lesson. You live again, Robert. But don’t think I’ll grant you a third chance,” he added harshly. “Stay far from me and mine.” He kicked Robert’s injured leg, hard. The Assassin’s eyes rolled back, the pain knocking him out.

As the world reformed, Shay called out , “If you attack, I’ll kill you.” He sighed as the whispers screamed. “Damned fools,” he muttered, sending a bullet tearing through Carter’s side. Perhaps sensing his intent, the world remained intact.

The Assassin woman glowered at him as he tossed her a bandage. “Keep pressure on that,” he warned as he stepped around her. “Chris will be sad if you die.”

“ You are dead,” she snapped. “Connor will kill you . ”

Shay smirked. “I’ve no doubt he’ll try again, but he’s had little success as of yet.” Not exactly true; if the boy hadn’t frozen in  Petersham , Shay wouldn’t be here now. But freeze the Assassin had, and now the Grandmaster would have his due.

Shay limped into the manor, pausing as he looked over the house that had once been his home. For a moment , he could almost hear Abigail singing in the kitchen, pots and pans clattering as she ordered the hapless initiates about in preparation for the nights spread. Little Connor would be running past, laughing; a tart in his mouth and another for Shay, knowing the treat would bribe the older boy into regaling him with stories. Shay could almost  see Achilles, scolding his two mischief makers; voice warm and deep, not quite able to hide the laughter in his dark eyes.

The Grandmaster blinked hard, forcing back the tears. Those days had ended, even before Lisbon. He pulled the old candelabra – no longer stuck – lit a  candle, and headed  for the basement. Haytham had asked him to protect the amulet, unaware it would never come to Shay. Charles had asked him to retrieve it. It would be here, if it was kept in the manor at all. It wasn’t the reason Shay had come, but he may as well try.

The Grandmaster looked sadly around the old room. Achilles had kept the most dangerous items here, away from little Connor, until the passage had jammed. Now , it was some sort of office for the Assassins. There was a table near the wall, he noticed, covered in items he recognized immediately : William Johnson’s beads, John Pitcairn’s  gorget , Thomas Hickey’s sash, Nicholas Biddle’s spyglass, and Haytham’s Hidden Blade.

Shay’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing for Charles?” he wondered aloud. It hardly mattered.

He gathered the items with reverence. The amulet might not be here, but the Grandmaster was hardly going to leave  these in Assassin hands. He’d return the items to the men’s families, if he could. If there was family to take them. The Johnson children, at least, would be glad to have the beads back.

_Might even buy me some goodwill with Grandmaster Brant_ , Shay thought ruefully. His northern counterpart had  not been happy with Logan’s raid. Nor had Shay, though he could not fault the man’s reasoning.  Moluntha’s murder had ended any chance of peace and the best Logan could accomplish was to prevent the tribes from running an effective campaign. Necessary though it may have been, it had hardly endeared the American Rite to the Native Grandmaster. They were still  allies , of course; their cause greater than any personal dispute. Still, a gift would not go amiss. Apologies, Shay had already sent.

The Grandmaster gazed at the last two items on the table: a worn journal and a water-damaged log. Shay was nowhere in the journal now; he’d been erased as cleanly as Haytham could manage.  Was it because of Shay’s role as the Inner Sanctum’s Inquisitor, as Haytham had claimed? Or was he trying to protect the only ranked member of his Rite Connor, inexplicably, knew nothing of? 

_ Or were you so angry, you saw fit to erase me from the annals of our Rite?  _ Shay hoped not. They had reconciled , after all, and Haytham had chosen him as Charles’ successor.  _ But I was the highest of us remaining, and he never called on me until near the end, though I swore I’d come if he did. _

Perhaps the journal would hold an answer. Most likely not. Either way, it was coming with Shay. The log however…

Shay set his old journal on the ground. It had followed him for years, surviving the wreck  which killed his father , Lisbon ,  even the night he fell from the cliff, for he’d left it behind. It was right that he had; the log belonged to an Assassin, and Shay had long since ceased to be one.

The Grandmaster knelt, setting the candle’s flame against the edge of the brittle pages. For years , he had swallowed his grief and buried his wrath, unable to act  on either as his plans progressed. The fire caught, the hungry flame soon spreading to the dry wooden floor. Shay climbed the stair, the heat following him

He paused briefly in the hall, bidding his old home a final goodbye. The Assassins might rebuild it someday, but it would never be the same. He inclined his head, laughter and song echoing in his ears.

Then , he turned and walked out the door, leaving his past to burn behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUthor’s Note: Further chapters require reviews. As an aside, this chapter hurt to write, but I love how it worked out.


	34. 1787: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Connor gazed upon the burned ruins of his home for the second time.  “I’m sorry,” Clipper said quietly. “We should have stopped him.”

“It is not your fault,” Connor replied automatically. He paused, adding more firmly, “ … truly. It is mine.” If he had not frozen in  Petersham …  _How did he know?_ Connor wondered again. He had never told anyone his father’s last words.

“You could hardly have anticipated being dropped into a frozen river,” William said dryly, rubbing at his still - raw cheek. It would scar, but hopefully not too badly. The same could not be said for Faulkner; the ball had shattered his hip beyond repair. The seaman would never have full use of his leg again, but Connor was hopeful they could avoid amputation.

“He used to go for dives in those,” Faulkner said now, “usually because he mistimed his jumps.” The gathered Assassins smiled weakly, but there was no mirth among them. Their losses weighed too heavy for it.

“Still,” Connor said. “You should not blame yourselves.” He raised a hand to stave off objections. “Cormac can sense an attack before it comes. He  cannot be surprised.”

“So  that’s how,” Faulkner muttered despairingly. “I always wondered how he cut right through us the way he did.”

William frowned. “If he turns our stealth against us, we must strike him in the open.”

“Which serves him more than us,” Clipper pointed out. “He’s good at  disappearing , and prefers to fight from a distance.”

Connor nodded. “I need to corner him, where he cannot flee and has little room to react.”

“We, you mean,” Dobby said.

“No.” Connor shook his head firmly, recalling how near the fight had been. He had lost too many of his trainees; he would not risk them further. “You need to  heal, and help the people here. And… see to Jamie and  Atasá:ta . Their families must be informed.” The Assassins bowed their heads somberly at the reminder of their fallen brethren.

“I wonder,” Dobby said dully, “why he left us alive?” It was the question they were all asking, though this was the first it had been said aloud.

“I… I am not certain he intended to kill any of us,” William said thoughtfully. “ Atasá:ta’s death may have been instinct. But me , he did not kill, nor any of you. Perhaps this was a message? A warning that he  can ?”

“He killed Jamie,” Dobby pointed out.

“A mercy  kill ,” William countered.

“You’d like it to be ! ” Dobby accused.

“It doesn’t matter,” Connor interrupted, looking thoughtfully at the French Assassin. “Not anymore.” He sighed wearily, feeling every one of his thirty years. “Clipper will lead you while I’m gone. Dobby, Faulkner, rest. William, come with me.”

The younger Assassin nodded, following Connor from the temporary hospital. “You are so certain he did not intend to kill you,” Connor began.

William nodded slowly. “He retracted his Blade before,” the Assassin motioned at his bandaged chest, “else I would not be here.”

Connor nodded thoughtfully. “That was a grave risk to himself.”

William frowned. “The others–”

“Were incapacitated. You were not.” Connor waited patiently, knowing the Frenchman would respond when ready.

“He saved my life,” William said eventually, “when I was a child. I was playing by the  docks, and fell in the sea.” Connor nodded, encouraging him to continue. “After…” William paused. “You must understand, Connor. Matters in France… They are not the same as here. Our Mentor, Mirabeau, he is friends with  Grandmaster de la Serre.  So these many years we have had… not a peace, exactly, but…”

“An unofficial truce?” Connor suggested.

“ Oui ,” William agreed. “Though perhaps more formalized. Hostilities are strongly discouraged. There was talk, when I left, of true peace. But I do not know.” He shook his head. “There are many – in both Orders – who oppose it.” 

He sighed, returning to the earlier matter. “Monsieur Shay would visit, when he came to France. I suppose, having saved it, he took some interest in my life. My father put an end to it when he learned of it – he is one of those who does not approve – but Monsieur Shay sent me gifts and letters for years. 

“When I came here, to fight in the war, I met  him and we fought together.”

“He cares about you,” Connor said thoughtfully. “That is why he spared you.” He fixed William with a piercing glare. “You did not tell me of this.”

“He is your enemy,” the Frenchman explained, “and you are fond of him yourself. I do not wish to make his death harder than it must be.”

Connor looked out over the devastated Homestead; at the people searching through the remains of their homes; the rows of shoddy tents and haphazard shelters formed from debris. The manor itself was nothing but ash, his father’s journal lost in the flames. Atop the hill , near the cemetery , a line of bodies were draped in white cloth – defenders and rebels both –  Atasá:ta and Jamie among them. 

“It will not be hard,” the Assassin said grimly. “Not anymore.”

* * *

Connor found  Fillian hidden in the wreckage of the  Aquila . Surprised at berth, with few hands, she had acquitted herself well, but her defeat had been inevitable.  _ I’ll repair her, _ Connor decided, but it would have to wait. The rest of the Homestead took priority.

“I  should’nt’ve warned Gillian,” the youngest Assassin said miserably as Connor approached.

“You did not cause this,” Connor assured him, settling himself beside the boy.

Fillian looked stricken. “If I hadn’t warned her–” 

“Cormac would have done this anyway,” Connor said firmly. “This was revenge for his Rite.” Or so Connor assumed. He had spent too many years seeking his own vengeance not to recognize the signs; the Grandmaster had nothing else to gain by this attack.

“You’re sure?”  Fillian asked quietly.

“Yes,” Connor smiled. “The traitor gained nothing by this, save t h e strengthening of our resolve.”

“I think,”  Fillian began after a moment, voice soft. “I think I could kill Gillian now, if I had to.” He paused, looking over the devastated Homestead. “No,” he corrected himself. “I  can. ”

“I know,” Connor said, and smiled proudly at the boy.

* * *

“She’s gone again,” Faulkner said that evening, after he’d finally convinced Connor to bring him to the  Aquila . Connor had thought it better to wait, but he understood his first mate’s need to see his ship before he could rest.

“We’ll repair her,” he promised the old seaman, “and Davenport, too.”

Faulkner chuckled bitterly. “It’s been destroyed twice in twenty-five years. Already folk are saying  it’s bad luck. You won’t convince ‘ em to stay.”

“Is that how you feel about the  Aquila ?” Connor asked shrewdly.

“The  Morrigan, ” Faulkner rejoined with a quick grin. It faded quickly. “Yes. No. I don’t…” He paused, thinking. “ Haym once told me, in his faith, they add a name to things – people – to change their luck. Maybe… Maybe, when we rebuild her  this time, we could try that. Give her better luck.”

“A new name,” Connor mused. “Any ideas?”

“It’s  Haym’s idea,” Faulkner said, a sorrowful look crossing his face at the thought of their fellow Assassin. “He always said he liked for his people to be remembered, but I think he should be, too. And his name meant life, or so he told me.”

“Life … ” Connor said thoughtfully. “A good thing to add.”

* * *

“Christopher tried to kill me in Kentucky,” Dobby said as the sun rose the next morning. “But when he failed, he didn’t track me, though we both know he could have.” Connor nodded. “He probably had other orders, but…”

“There is no shame in caring for an enemy,” Connor assured her.

“I know,” she snapped. “Not as long as it doesn’t interfere – and it  won’t . But … ” she sighed. “I guess part of me wants to believe he cared, too.”

“Cormac seemed to think so,” Connor offered, “and – I think – his sister implied the same.”

“The one who sent you the dancing master?” Dobby snorted.

“Yes.” Briefly, Connor smiled at the memory. “She was… interesting.” His levity faded quickly. “You will be alright?”

Dobby nodded firmly. “As well as anyone  can be, after this.” She shot him a quick grin. “Don’t worry about me, Connor. Just kill the bastard, alright?”

“I will,” the Assassin promised grimly. “I will.” The cycle of vengeance would continue.

* * *

“She wants to move,” Jacob said, “and I can’t really argue.”

“I understand,” Connor said softly. “Where will you go?”

Jacob shrugged. “South, probably. Somewhere warm, with better soil. I’m not leaving the Brotherhood, Connor. Just Massachusetts.”

Connor nodded thoughtfully. “There is man in South Carolina:  Telemaque . He pledged to the Creed some time ago. We do not have many Assassins in the South.”

“I’ll find him,” Jacob agreed, “and see if we can’t recruit a few more.”

“Reach out to Patrick Henry if you pass Virginia,” Connor added. “I think he may be a worthy ally, perhaps more.”

“I will,” Jacob promised, as his wife called him away. Connor  w atched him leave, grief pulsing through him.  _How many more_ ,  he wondered, _ will follow? _

* * *

Connor bade his farewells to Jamie and  Atasá:ta late in the morning, just before the funeral. “I am sorry,” he told their spirits, “but I do not have ten days to mourn.”

Jamie had family, technically, but he had always said the Assassins were his true one.  Atasá:ta had never known any other; raised away from his people, he had not even known his clan.  Thus it fell to Connor to perform the rites, but he could not even perform those properly. Time was something he had too little of.

“I have given instructions for your possessions to be given out amongst the people here.” It was custom, one Connor had flaunted when he chose to keep relics of his father and Achilles. He was suddenly glad he had buried his mother’s necklace; he never should have kept it. At least he was doing it properly now.

He frowned, uncertain of how to continue. He had so much he wanted to say, so much he could not voice. “Thank you,” he settled on, “for sharing your journey on this land with me. I hope your journey along the stars is an easy one.” They had been good men; it should be.

* * *

“I will need you to keep watch until I return,” Connor told Clipper again that afternoon. The funeral had just concluded, and it was time for the Assassin to leave. “William will help until the others recover; be careful he does not over work himself. Fillian, too. Duncan should arrive within a few weeks; the doctor said he was recovering well.” For a given definition of the term; they had had to remove the arm.

Clipper nodded grimly. “When will you be back?”

“I do not know,” Connor answered. “ Thayendanegea does  not like me, which does not bode well for negotiations. But if he  does aid these rebels, matters will not go well. The United States cannot afford another war with Britain.” The rumors of the rebels receiving Kanienkeha’ka aid from the War Chief were too concerning to ignore. And Connor could not ignore Thayendanegea forever, not if he wanted his children to live among their people in peace.

“I thought the Templars wanted to avoid that,” Clipper said, scowling. “How does this help them?”

“I do not know that this is their doing,” Connor admitted. “ Thayendanegea and his Br i tish allies have their own reasons to encourage revolt among the States. But it must be dealt with , regardless.”

“Agreed,” Clipper said. “I’ve sent word to Stephane, and he says he’ll keep working on things in Philadelphia. There’s still no word from Joe, unfortunately.”

Connor frowned. It was not uncommon for the mysterious Assassin to disappear for months at a time, but still… “Keep trying,” he ordered. “And… have our allies look for a body.”

Clipper’s eyes widened. “You think–”

“I think,” Connor said firmly, “we cannot discount it. Not after…”

Clipper nodded, understanding. “I’ll relay the orders.”

“ T hank you.” Connor sighed, reaching out to brush the charred beams, all that remained of the manor he called home for so long. “My father’s diary was in here.”

“I’m sorry,” Clipper said awkwardly.

Connor shook his head. “It is a little thing; just paper and ink and I should not have kept it to begin. Compared to the rest…”

“It was all you had,” Clipper said solemnly, putting voice to the words Connor could not say.

“It is as if I lost him a second time,” Connor said softly.

Clipper looked at him thoughtfully. “He really mattered to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Connor admitted, uncertain of whom he spoke. “He did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Haym Solomon: I mentioned him earlier, remember? Recruit, you need to pay more attention.
> 
> Renaming: Jewish belief holds that changing your name - or your place - changes your fortune. Often when people fall ill an extra name is added. This is usually some variant of Chai (Life), Refua (Healing) or Baruch (Blessing).
> 
> Telemaque: Denmark Vessey. Please tell me you remember HIM recruit. I’m going to be very offended if you don’t.
> 
> Journey among the stars: A Haudenosaunee belief holds that the dead travel along the path of the Milky Way.
> 
> AUthor’s Notes: So we’re actually getting very close to the American Politics chapters. And how timely, no? So in honor of that, here’s a fun lesson on the Presidential election!
> 
> First: The election is coming down to six votes in Nevada right now. That’s... wow. Las Vegas must be having a field day.
> 
> To start: a warning. This election can’t be called until the Electoral votes are counted - and possibly not even then.
> 
> The People of the United States don’t elect the President. The States, represented by the electors, elect the President. This is because of Dual Sovereignty, one of the founding tenets of the US. The States are Sovereign nations under a unifying Federation government. The States can actually choose their electors carte blanche; they have each, individually, chosen to enact laws leaving the decision to their People.
> 
> So... The Electoral College. The people who represent the States and DC, and decide who will be President. They’re SUPPOSED to vote according to their State’s directive, but between 2 and 5 are unfaithful every election. Several States have outlawed this, and there are penalties for doing it in others. Doesn’t matter though; once their vote has been counted in Congress, it counts. State laws don’t override Federal.
> 
> Now, usually (with one significant exception, where the entire College was unfaithful) these unfaithful Electors aren’t important. But this year, it’s possible the winner will have exactly 270 votes. Which means just ONE unfaithful Elector on the correct side sends the election to the House... and the Senate.
> 
> So the election goes to the House. Remember I said the States elect the President? Well, that’s true here too. Each State, regardless of number of Representatives, gets ONE vote for President. Oh, 3/4 need to agree... Yeah, that’s not happening.
> 
> Meanwhile, the Senate votes for Vice President. And needs three quarters to agree. Which is also very much not happening.
> 
> So what happens if Congress can’t get its act together and give us a President? Well, the current President, Trump, remains in office until March 4th. At which point his VP, Pence, gets sworn into office as the new President.
> 
> Our Founders were awesome! They actually foresaw the possibility that Congress couldn’t pick a President! 
> 
> Or, to put it another way, Mike Pence might actually be the surprise winner of this election. How’s that for an unanticipated result?


	35. 1787: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

The journey to Canada was not an uneventful one. Numerous letters and petitions were circulating through the populace, encouraging the revolt. Already Connor had helped to put down half-a-dozen raids and assaults. William Shepard had proven his worth, encouraging Bowdoin to continue working to end the rebellion. It was clear to Connor that Cormac wanted the rebel activity to continue through the Philadelphia Convention – never so strong as to be a proper threat, but not so weak as to be a negligible one.

Connor had no intention of allowing Shay Cormac’s Rebellion to continue at all. He sighed, turning to the man beside him. “And they’ve taken hostages?”

“Prisoners, they’re calling them,” John Ashley confirmed, “though we all know the truth.” The Brigadier shook his head angrily. “They’re bold as brass; attacking and looting. We’ve got to stop them and we’ve got to do it here.”

“Agreed,” Connor said grimly. “What is your plan?”

“I have eighty good men here,” Ashley said, “well-armed and well-trained. The rebels are quartered near Sheffield, not so great a ways from here. If we strike hard and fast, we may break them for good.”

Connor had heard the same too often to believe it now. It was never that simple. “They’ll see you coming,” he pointed out wearily.

“Can’t help that,” Ashley argued. “The terrain’s too rough to go any other way but straight. We’ll just have to move fast.”

“Very well,” Connor agreed too weary to argue further. The past few days weighed heavily on him.

The Brigadier gathered his men, and they marched rapidly through the fading day. It was twilight when they neared their foes. Connor immediately saw the problem. “They’re using the hostages for breastwork,” he told Ashley. “Wait here, and I’ll get them out.”

Ashley nodded, ordering his men into formation as Connor slipped away. Carefully, the Assassin approached the line of hostages. The men – merchants most of them – had been ill-treated. Many still had open wounds and festering sores from their brutal capture. Connor scowled; clearly the captors cared little for the wellbeing of their ‘prisoners’.

“Mentor Connor?” One of the men hissed, looking at the Assassin.

Connor frowned, recognizing the man. “Erastus Sergeant?” He had worked with Lincoln, but had been dismissed with most of the volunteer militia.

Erastus smiled. “Can you distract them?” He whispered, tilting his head toward the guards. “I can have everyone ready to run when you do.”

Connor nodded. “Signal when you are ready.” He waited impatiently as the captive men prepared. The minutes crept by slowly while the rebels stirred, becoming increasingly belligerent, seeing Ashley’s delay as a sign of weakness.

At last, Erastus inclined his head toward Connor. The Assassin slipped among the enemy lines, approaching one of the men near the front. He tapped his chosen victim on the shoulder.

“Yes–” The man turned, and Connor punched him. Blood spurted from the man’s nose as he fell back, cursing. His fellows turned on Connor, forgetting their charges. As one, the hostages fled.

“Damn it!” a rebel cried, pointing his rifle at the fleeing men. Connor threw himself at the rifleman, the shot going wild.

It was all the signal the angry men needed. The rebels began to fire, balls flying almost randomly. Connor dodged, and dodged again, fists striking out again and again. He had no desire to kill these men, not when he knew they too were victims – victims of a Templar plot.

The government men had no such compunctions, returning fire with eager abandon. Slowly, too slowly, the rebels fell back. A moment later they broke, fleeing in truth. Connor blinked, adrenaline fading.

Around him were bodies, more than he had seen over the entirety of the revolt. Thirty men or more were dead and dozens more wounded; men who had once fought side by side, now spilling one another’s blood. It was the bloodiest battle in the whole of the rebellion.

It had only taken six minutes.

* * *

“A priest?” Ashley said blankly.

“Well he sure had a lot of crosses,” one of the captured rebels explained, “and he wore this long white coat. So I figure he was some kinda’ priest.”

Connor was honestly surprised no one had made the mistake before. The Templars _did_ like their Cross. Though most Assassins were little different, finding ways to insert the Eagle’s Beak into everything from jewelry to statuary. _We are more alike than we care to admit._ In some ways, at least.

“So a priest is rallying the rebels,” Ashley said thoughtfully.

“He is no priest,” Connor corrected. “He just… likes to wear crosses.”

“Religious?”

“Devoted,” Connor clarified. Unfortunately, further questioning proved fruitless; the rebels did not know where Cormac had gone after rallying them. They were able to confirm other concerns, however.

“Lord Dorchester’s going to send Brant and his Indians to help us,” one of the rebels proclaimed proudly. “He knows our cause is just!”

“More like he wants Britain to get her colonies back,” snapped Ashley.

Connor agreed. He had heard of Lord Dorchester. The Canadian governor had sworn he would ‘live to see America sue to Britain for protection and to be received again by it.’ If _he_ was involved, the possibility of northern aid had just become a far more credible threat.

Connor could no longer delay in Massachusetts. It was long past time he dealt with Thayendanegea, whom the settlers named ‘Joseph Brant’.

* * *

Connor paused only once on his way north, on the tenth day from the funeral. Carefully, he prepared the rack of a young buck and some bacon and hash. They were the favored foods of Atasá:ta and Jamie. It was not quite as they liked it, and the meal should have had more, but it was the best Connor could do.

He set out three places, one for each of them, and ate of their meal. He drank some whisky, mouth twisting at the taste. Connor had never been fond of alcohol, but Jamie had liked it on occasion. They had drunk together sometimes. They would not do so again after this night.

It was not the final goodbye – that would come in a year’s time – but it was _a_ goodbye. A last meal together. They would meet again, Connor knew, after he took his own journey across the stars. Perhaps they would even accompany him.

The thought gave him some comfort as the fire died away and the Assassin resumed his journey north.

* * *

Brant’s Town was home to many different peoples. The greater number were Kanienke’ha’ka, but there were many colonists – veterans of the War Chief’s regiment – who had settled among them. Connor had been there a week, and it had become eminently clear Thayendanegea had no intention of meeting with him. Despite his misgivings, the Assassin would have to force the matter. It did not bode well.

He could not have sent anyone else, however. _Connor_ led the Assassins, and was of their people. The War Chief would likely take an emissary as an insult – especially when he already disliked the Assassin.

Connor glowered at the War Chief’s home. Thayendanegea’s house did not follow the traditions of their people in any way. An elegant, two-story building, with a Union Jack flying at the gate, it resembled the houses of the Europeans the War Chief was said to be fond of. **_I_** _care more than he for the customs of our people,_ Connor thought bitterly, _yet **he** seeks to drive me from them._

The Assassin breathed deeply, forcing the anger away. It could only hinder him here. Whatever Connor had done to incur Thayendanegea’s hatred – and the pain said hatred had caused the Assassin – was irrelevant. To convince the War Chief, Connor would have to be calm and focused. Preventing a second war with Britain came before all else. The Assassin could only hope Thayendanegea would see that.

To do any of that, though, Connor would have to _meet_ the War Chief. He forced his face into a cool, even expression, walking up to the elegant house. Two warriors stood at the door. Connor paused, fixing the men with a hard, cold look. “Tell Thayendanegea: Ratonhnhake:ton will wait on his stair for as many days as it takes for them to meet.”

It took two days. Late in the morning on the third, a warrior opened the front door. “The War Chief will meet with you now, Ratonhnhake:ton.”

“Thank you,” Connor said wearily, following the warrior to Thayendanegea’s office. Inside, the War Chief sat, his wife, Adonwentishon, Oiá:ner of the Turtle Clan, beside him.

“Why do you force this meeting upon us?” Adonwentishon demanded as soon as the warrior departed.

“I apologize, Oiá:ner, War Chief, but the matter is urgent,” Connor began.

“Is it?” Thayendanegea asked coldly.

Connor forced himself to remain calm, recalling his purpose. “I have heard you intend to offer your aid to the rebels in Vermont. I have come to ask you not to do so.”

Husband and wife shared a long look, before the War Chief spoke again. “Why should we heed the word of a traitor? Heed the words of the man who slew my brother, husband of my sister, Konwatsii’aieni, Oiá:ner of the Wolf Clan?”

Connor blinked, thrown. _No wonder he hates me._ But the Assassin could not let the revelation faze him. “Because failing to do so will lead to a war which could only harm our people further.”

“Now you care for our people?” demanded Adonwentishon.

“I have always cared,” Connor said firmly.

“You defied the two Councils and allied with Conocotarius,” the Oiá:ner stated coldly. “You betrayed the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, believing yourself wiser than the Councils.”

Connor flinched. The matter was hardly that simple, but… He _had_ allied with Washington – Conocotarious, as his people named the man. Burner of Villages. Knowing what he did now, Connor could not deny the name fit well. “I believed I was helping our people.”

“No,” Thayendanegea countered sharply. “You thought any cause which defied the Templars was good.” Connor’s eyes widened, as the War Chief smiled grimly. “Yes, we know of your little war. My sister’s husband was Sir William Johnson.”

“Then you know what he was doing,” Connor said fiercely. “Why I–”

“The only one there with any right to sell was Konwatsii’aieni,” the Oiá:ner said, her eyes sharp. “Land does not belong to men – you know this.”

Which was true, Connor realized. And if Johnson’s wife had the right to the land… “The Chiefs… it was her they were defying. He spoke for her.”

“Very good,” Adonwentishon confirmed.

“It does not change what he did,” Connor insisted.

“No,” Thayendanegea agreed. “But he did so only because he had been driven to near madness. My sister and her children are Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, and her husband cared deeply for our people. My sister wrote me of his fears; how he could not sleep or eat for worry. Fear and desperation lead men to do what they would not, and _you_ made him desperate. So, when the men lay question on my sister’s authority, on her _right_ to say who is and is not one of the People…”

_He panicked,_ Connor finished. “He thought their anger at him might harm his wife.”

“It was _she_ who was selling the land,” Adonwentishon reminded him.

“Why did he not just say–” Connor shook his head, answering his own question. “The British.”

“If the British knew a woman was selling the land, they might not have recognized the transaction,” Thayendanegea agreed. “But the Chiefs knew.”

Adonwentishon sniffed angrily. “Those fools think women are weak, foolish. The Haudenosaunee are wiser, and give power to each.”

“I am sorry,” Connor said, and he was. He was Kanienʼkehá꞉ka; why had it not occurred to him to look at Johnson’s wife? _Because I thought I knew everything,_ Connor acknowledged bitterly. _I saw him only as a settler and thought his wife a weak European woman with no say._ He had not even noticed her there.

“It does not matter,” Thayendanegea said, his eyes cool. “The blood that lies between us is a personal matter, one I would set aside if you will guarantee the safety of my sister and her children from the members of your Brotherhood.”

“You have it,” Connor swore.

The War Chief nodded. “But we still have no reason to listen to the words of a traitor.”

“I am not a traitor,” Connor said.

“Did you defy the Councils?” Adonwentishon demanded.

Connor shut his eyes, knowing the truth of the accusation. “I did.”

“Then you are a traitor to the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka,” the Oiá:ner said firmly.

“The Oneida fought with the Patriots,” Connor pointed out.

“ _They_ were not Kanienʼkehá꞉ka,” Thayendanegea said. “ _You_ are.”

“I did not disobey lightly,” Connor said quietly. “A spirit told me to join the Assassins. She told me it would enable me to protect my people. She lied.” It was a matter still painful to him, and not one he had often spoken of. It had been enough for his wife, and her parents. He could only hope it was enough, here.

Oiá:ner and War Chief shared another long look. Finally, Adonwentishon nodded. “This we can accept. If you will abandon the Creed that led you to betray us, now that you know you were deceived, you will be forgiven and be welcome among us again.”

Grief struck, fierce and terrible. Connor believed in the Creed, deeply and truly. He believed in the Assassins’ purpose: to protect the world from those who would enslave it and enable its people to be free to reach their potential. He could not abandon it, nor the world, no matter the cost to himself. “I cannot do what you ask. The world is greater than the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, and I cannot simply abandon it to those who would do it harm.”

The War Chief inclined his head, something almost like respect in his eyes. His words, however, betrayed none of it. “I will convene the Chiefs,” Thayendanegea said as he rose, “so they may determine the penalty for your treason.”

Connor breathed deep, bowing his head. “I have no right to ask,” the Assassin said, “but for the sake of my wife and children, I ask that you refrain. Let my punishment remain between us, and I will heed it, but do not force my children to grow in shame.”

“Step aside,” Thayendanegea said thoughtfully, his eyes softer than they had been all the time before. “We would speak privately.”

Connor left the room, head bowed. He stood in the hall, mouth dry, waiting for his fate, and that of his family, to be decided. The worst was he understood. If he had to choose between the Creed and the Councils, Connor would always choose the former. He could not repent of his earlier treason while still engaged in the same. It still hurt.

The door opened. “Come,” Thayendanegea said. Connor entered, head low. There would be no mercy for him, he knew. He could only hope the couple would have compassion for his children.

“This is our punishment,” Adonwentishon said firmly. “You will be stripped of your name and your place in the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka. Ratonhnhake:ton is no more. You are ‘Connor Kenway’, son of the foreigner Haytham Kenway. You have no place among us, and are not welcome in the places of the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka.”

“I understand,” Connor said, the words bitter on his tongue.

“We are not without compassion,” Thayendanegea said softly. “You may visit with your wife and children in her village once each season. Or she may go with you, as has become the custom of those who wed outsiders.”

“Thank you,” Connor said, and meant it. A banished warrior was unwelcome anywhere among the Haudenosaunee; to allow him the visits was a great kindness.

“The matter will remain between us, as you have asked,” Adonwentishon continued. “Word will be sent to the Oiá:ner of the nine clans, but your children will not know the burden of a traitorous, banished father.”

“Thank you,” Connor repeated.

Thayendanegea nodded sharply. “Now, Mentor Kenway,” he said, switching to English, “regarding the urgent matter you wished to discuss with us…?”

_Mentor Kenway._ Connor frowned at the term. But what had he expected? He was an outsider now, and entitled to no other name. _But it was never **mine**_. A sudden thought occurred to him, bringing with it a strange comfort. “ _Connor Kenway,_ ” the Oiá:ner had said. Not ‘ _Connor_ ’ alone. Adonwentishon had taken away his name, but she had given him another in its stead, as only the Oiá:ner might do, for it was to them the power of naming was given.

Little though it was, it gave him the strength to recall his purpose. Connor raised his head, forcing away his grief. He would have time enough to mourn on the way home. “Lord Dorchester has asked you to send your to aid the Massachusetts rebels. I believe he is using you in an attempt to reclaim the American colonies, now States. If it fails, he will lose nothing, but we– _you_ will lose a great deal.”

“I agree,” Thayendanegea said. “Which is why we would have refused, even at the cost of the Governor’s friendship.”

Connor frowned. “But you have not done so.”

“No,” the War Chief agreed. “And this is why.” He pushed an envelope across the desk to Connor. “You have earned my respect, Mentor Kenway, so I entrust this to you. Perhaps we may work together in the future, should your Order’s interests align with those of my People.”

Connor took the letter, noting the familiar cross on the seal.

_Chief Brant, Oiá:ner Adonwentishon,_

_First, I would express my apologies for the debacle in the Ohio Valley. As my counterpart has no doubt informed you, such acts were in no way intended; we had hoped to bring matters to a peaceable resolution. Unfortunately, due to the unforeseeable actions of a madman, this was rendered impossible. I have called Logan to task for his response in the moment, but as I was not there, I cannot truly question his decisions._

_Let me now speak to the true purpose of this missive. Lord Dorchester has requested a battalion of your warriors to aid the Shaysite Regulators. I understand you intend to refuse, as well you should. But if I may offer my advice, do not do so directly. My allies in England understand the United States are to remain free; I have been given leave to undertake my experiment here, and to conduct my Rite as I see fit, without undue interference. Therefore, within a short while, you may anticipate Lord Dorchester rescinding his request, as he will have learned such actions are unwelcome to the Crown._

_I know this does not begin to answer for the matter now known as Logan’s Raid, and I am truly sorry for it. Consider my aid in this matter a gesture of my Order’s continuing goodwill toward your people and yourself._

_Yours,_

_Shay Patrick Cormac_

_Grandmaster of the American Rite_

Connor scowled, though there was no anger in it. Cormac had not intended to trick him for once. It was still annoying, knowing he had not needed to make the trip.

_And if I had not come, Thayendanegea and Adonwentishon would not have pushed the matter of treason._ It was a foolish thought, and Connor knew it. The War Chief and Oiá:ner could not have waited forever on the matter. There had been stirrings, when last he visited his wife. He would not have been exiled today, perhaps, but in time he would have been summoned before the Council of Chiefs to answer for his deeds, and the matter would have been made public before all the Haudenosaunee.

But as he was here… “War Chief,” Connor began, “would… Could I…”

“Yes?” Thayendanegea asked.

Connor swallowed, uncertain why he was nervous. “May I speak with Konwatsii’aieni? I wish to apologize to her.” Templar though Johnson was, it was clear Connor had misjudged the situation leading to the man’s death.

The War Chief gazed thoughtfully at the Assassin. “I trust you will keep your pledge?” Connor nodded firmly, understanding what Thayendanegea carefully did not say: the War Chief was not a Templar, but his sister _was._ “Then you will find her in Catarqui.”

“Thank you,” Connor said and, dismissed, left.

* * *

It was easy enough for Connor to find the home of Konwatsii’aieni, or ‘Molly Brant’, as she was known here. She was waiting outside when the Assassin arrived, her brother having forewarned her of his arrival. “Mentor Kenway,” she said coldly. “You understand if I do not wish you near my children.”

“I do,” Connor replied. Automatically, he glanced at her hand. As he had expected, she wore a Templar ring.

“It belonged to my husband,” she said coldly. “As did these.” She brushed her hand lightly over a strand of familiar beads.

“How–” Connor began.

Konwatsii’aieni smiled joylessly. “A peace offering, from my southern counterpart. He was kind enough to retrieve them for me.”

“Your–” Connor stared at her, thrown. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment, “your brother was more right to exile me than I knew. Twice now, I have discounted you when I should not have.”

“Had you not done so the first time,” the Grandmaster said, “you might not have me as your enemy now, _Assassin._ ”

Connor inclined his head, acknowledging that truth. “I came to apologize for the pain I caused you. I am sorry to have done so.”

Konwatsii’aieni’s face darkened. “Are you? Do you know what it is to see a good man, a man you love with all your being, be destroyed in body and mind until he is but a shadow? To wake after years and the other half of your soul is absent from your bed?” Her voice rose as she spoke, grief and fury lacing every word. “To hear your children ask ‘Where is Father? Why is he covered in blood?’”

“They were there?” Connor asked, horrified.

“We were on the steps of our home. Where else would they be?”

And she had been there too. Of course she was; as Oiá:ner of the Wolf Clan, she would have had to be. “I am sorry,” Connor repeated. “I did not know.”

“You did not ask,” she replied. “Such is the problem with Assassins. You react to what we Templars do, but do not think to question if stopping us truly serves the people you purport to help.” The Grandmaster inclined her head coldly. “Goodbye, Mentor Kenway. Do not return to my home. Some deeds are beyond forgiveness.”

“I will not,” Connor assured her. He would not apologize again; Konwatsii’aieni would not appreciate it. But it did not feel right to simply leave. “Peace and Safety, Grandmaster,” he settled on at last.

“May the Mother of Understanding guide you,” she replied, firm and intent, “so in the future, you will _ask._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> John Ashley - a Revolutionary brigadier, it's doubtful anyone would remember him if the Sheffield battle hadn't happened under his watch.
> 
> Erastus Sergeant - Surgeon at the Battle of Ticonderoga, he later helped Lincoln during Shays' Rebellion. Which is probably why he was captured here.
> 
> The Battle of Sheffield - Sometimes called the last battle of the American Revolution. Thirty-five men died, the bloodiest skirmish of Shays' Rebellion, over the course of six minutes.
> 
> Priest -Well, we were a Christian Knightly organization for a bit, so I suppose it isn't too odd of an assumption. 
> 
> Lord Dorchester - The governor of Canada at the time, he repeatedly stated he would reclaim Britain's lost colonies. Seeing as we're standing in the US nearly two hundred and fifty years later, I'd have to say he failed.
> 
> Brant's Town - Also known as Brant's Ford and today known as Brantford, an independent municipality near Brant County. It's near the Grand River. Many of Brant's descendants live on the reservation near the town.
> 
> Adonwentishon: Joseph Brant's wife, and the source of much of his power among his people. Europeans tended to "forget" that.
> 
> Molly Brant - Konwatsii'aieni, Clan mother of the Wolf clan and wife of William Johnson. Also known by a few other names. After the American Revolution she officially retired. Unofficially, she began rebuilding the American Rite in Canada, while Cormac did the same in the US. She's considered the founder of the Canadian Rite.
> 
> Conocotarious - Burner of Villages, ie. George Washington. Actually, the name was given to his grandfather for... burning native villages. But the grandson proved himself just as worthy of the name and is still known by it today.
> 
> Councils - Council of Chiefs and the Council of Clan Mothers. The latter elects the former, and also decides what to with land - something Connor forgot. Oops.
> 
> Banishment - one of the crueler Haudenosaunee punishments. Although the other penalty for treason is death, so...
> 
> Name - Every Kanienʼkehá꞉ka name is unique, and no two members have the same name at the same time. When someone is banished they are stripped of it, as Adonwentishon does here. Names are given by the Oiá:ner, and Adonwentishon gives Connor a new one here.
> 
> Mother of Understanding - Molly Brant had her own version of what the Father of Understanding was, and it involved a gender change. Quite a few of our more feminist members are inclined to agree. And then there's the whole 'Parent of Understanding' variant someone started...
> 
> AUthor's Note:
> 
> Would you believe this was the BEST solution I could find? UBISOFT had enough Mohawk to voice act the entire people in the game, but couldn't figure out that the ONLY PERSON who could be selling land was MARRIED to the person buying it? Really? And then, as if THAT wasn't bad enough, they have Connor straight up betraying the Mohawk by defying the Chiefs. Sigh...
> 
> Connor probably could have gotten away with it, because Juno DID tell him to join the Assassins, but Joseph - and thus Adonwentishon - knew about the Creed. So they made him pick, and he picked the Creed (which they expected he would. Molly has never actually committed treason, btw, which is why her being a Templar isn't an issue. If she DID commit treason, it would be.) And I couldn't make them NOT know, because Johnson raised Joseph and was married to Molly, and Molly was the Canadian Grandmaster... Seriously, did it not occur to ANYONE at UBISOFT that having Connor murder the brother-in-law/foster father of one of the major post-Revolutionary war Mohawk leaders MIGHT be a problem? 
> 
> And yes, Molly and the kids were there. Which is why I decided Johnson panicked; his actions REALLY make no sense otherwise.
> 
> So: Best possible solution was Connor's unofficial exile. He still gets to see his kids, and they don't grow up with a banished father. The Clan mothers can keep secrets. And they're actually pretty lenient on how often Connor can visit, once they realize he's keeping his word.
> 
> This is the last of the 'make Connor's life miserable chapters', btw. If it makes you feel better, Shay is currently on bedrest (it was George Monro who was causing trouble in upstate NY). Turns out walking tens of miles on a badly wounded leg isn't a good idea. Who knew?
> 
> Also: I need to apologize. It looks like you only need a majority of states to elect a President, but 2/3ds have to be present. I got that mixed up. 
> 
> I still think it would be cool to have an election go to the House. The last contingent election was in 1836/37 for VP. It's only happened three times in US history. And we've never had to swear in the VP as President because the House couldn't pick a President. Our fourth election was a contingent one, btw. And the two contingent Presidential elections BOTH involved a man named Adams; Sr. lost and Jr. won.


	36. 1787: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

“Congratulations, Grandmaster,” Richard Bayley said dryly. “You’ve managed _not_ to completely destroy your leg.”

“Do I want to know?” Shay replied, equally dry. Apparently running thirty miles through a snowstorm, swimming in an icy river, and marching across half of Massachusetts for revenge were _inadvisable_ on a wounded leg.

Bayley looked at him, considering. “You’ve been lucky,” he admitted. “You heal quite fast – you always have – and surgery went remarkably well, especially considering your age.” Shay shot the doctor a betrayed look, which Bayley ignored as he continued. “Rest. Do _not_ go out in extreme weather. Do _not_ strain the muscle. Perform gentle exercises while it heals and avoid further injury. _Listen_ to me – for once – and I think you’ll find the injury will not unduly impair you.”

“But it will be impaired,” Shay said wryly.

“I’m not a miracle worker,” Bayley said cooly. “But I doubt it will be noticeable if you aren’t looking for it. Perhaps not even then. But _only_ if you _listen_ , Grandmaster.”

Shay sighed. “Yes, Doctor Bayley.”

“He’ll listen,” Maggie said firmly, glaring at her husband. “Won’t you, Monsieur?”

Shay wilted. “Yes, Madame.” Magdalene had _not_ been happy to find her husband bedridden upon Shay’s return to New York. His leg had given out shortly after he'd boarded the _Morrigan_. As he'd been repeatedly told, he was lucky it hadn't failed before.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bayley said wryly, as he turned to Magdalene. “Now, Mistress Cormac, let us see to you.” His voice softened. “You said your monthly blood returned in January?” She had miscarried in late November, Shay recalled. Fortunately, he had only just been preparing to depart then, so was able to be there for her.

“Yes,” Maggie answered. “It came at the beginning of the month, and again in February and March.”

“But not in April?”

“No,” Maggie confirmed, “and we are already two weeks past its time.”

The doctor nodded. “It’s too early to be certain, of course–”

“ _I_ _know_ ,” Maggie insisted.

“She does,” Shay agreed. "Maggie has always known, almost from the first day."

“Entirely probable,” Bayley acknowledged, “but I can’t officially confirm anything until at least a month has passed.”

“But you’ll keep an eye on her?” Shay insisted.

“Monsieur!” Maggie exclaimed exasperatedly. “One would think I’d not gone through this before!” This would be their seventh, if all went well; the tenth child born to them, and Magdalene’s fourteenth pregnancy. Despite that…

“I worry!” Shay protested.

Magdalene sniffed. “Worry for _yourself_ , husband. I am not the sort to bathe in frozen rivers.”

Bayley chuckled. “I’m afraid she has you there, Grandmaster.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Shay demanded defensively. “ _Let_ the damned Assassin kill me?”  
  


“You were not supposed to be fighting him!” Maggie said pointedly. “In fact, I believe you were _expressly_ forbidden from doing so.” By most of the Rite, not that anyone had _actually_ expected Shay to listen.

“Besides,” Bayley added, “you certainly did _not_ have to go traipsing across half of Massachusetts for revenge.”

“I thought I was in charge here?” Shay demanded.

“Non, Monsieur,” Maggie said smugly. “ _I_ am.”

“Mistress Cormac is,” the doctor confirmed.

Shay glared at them. “Fine,” the Grandmaster conceded. “I suppose I can’t really argue.” Not if he ever wanted his wife to let him into her bed again.

“Non,” Maggie agreed pleasantly.

“Wise man,” the doctor chuckled, packing up his things. “If only you’d be as quick to heed _me_. Remember: be easy on your leg, Grandmaster.”

“I will,” Shay said. Hopefully he could make good on his promise. He intended to, at least. “And… thank you. I know we haven’t always gotten along – and I’m not the easiest patient –”

“With all due respect, Grandmaster,” Bayley interjected, “I think you’re a radical and a heretic.”

Shay winced. “I see.”

The doctor smiled grimly. “But given the situation,” he continued, “perhaps a radical heretic is what we need. Who knows? If Master Kenway had done what you wanted, and _we’d_ begun the Revolution earlier…”

Shay shook his head. “It hardly matters now. I only wished to thank you for your support.”

Bayley shrugged. “Haytham chose you to succeed Charles,” he pointed out. “I assumed he had his reasons, and I see now he was correct. I doubt I’ll ever agree with your… philosophies… but,” he shrugged again, “I don’t have to. I doubt you’d want me to. You’ve never been one for ‘yes men’, Master Cormac. It’s one of the reasons I respect you.”

“Still,” Shay said. “You were one of the few not already mine to do so.”

* * *

“Ensure he obeys Dr. Bayley’s orders,” Magdalene was saying as Shay emerged from the safehouse.

“On my word, Mistress Cormac,” Alexander promised. “Grandmaster?”

“I told you,” Shay snapped irritably. “You’ve known me too long to use the title.”

Alexander, ever impertinent, just raised a brow. “Of course, Grandmaster. Shall we?” He gestured at the carriage.

Shay sighed exasperatedly, before turning and grasping his wife’s small hands. “You’ll be alright?”

“I will be fine, mon amour,” she laughed. “Care more for yourself; I would not see you returned to me lamed a second time. _Once_ was quite enough.”

Shay smiled warmly. “I am sorry for worrying you, Cushlamachree.”

“Worry!” Cried Magdalene. “Oh, hardly that, Monsieur. It is your temper which offends me so. It grows most foul when you are forced to lay abed.”

Shay chuckled ruefully. She wasn’t wrong _there_. “I suppose I will just have to avoid further injury, Madame.”

She glanced up at him coyly, through heavy lidded, brilliant blue eyes. “See that you do, Monsieur.”

Shay kissed her then, long and deep; one hand wrapped in the dark coils of her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, pressing her against him; Magdalene’s own hands clutching him just as desperately as they embraced, savoring these last moments before they would be sundered again, knowing it might be the last they would share. “Is breá liom tú,” Shay breathed, his face buried in her hair. “Athair Tuisceana, Is breá liom an oiread sin duit.”

“Mon amour,” Maggie whispered, her face wet, “reviens moi bientôt.”

“I will,” the Grandmaster promised, knowing it was not his to keep. “I will.”

* * *

“Still reading that book?” Alexander asked. They had been travelling for days now, making their way to Philadelphia, where their Nation’s future would be decided.

Shay nodded, setting his tome aside. “It’s good to remember what we’re fighting for; what this is _really_ all about. If I can prove the truth here, and Thomas can replicate it in France, the rest of the Order will _have_ to listen.”

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “You really think you can convince them?”

Shay sighed. “If our plans here succeed, they’ll have no choice but to acknowledge it’s _possible._ If nothing else, I’ll have ensured they have no choice but to _try_ , at least here. From there, we work our way up.”

“Start with the Disciples, and end with the General of the Cross?”

“Exactly.” Shay smirked, carefully storing the codex away. The original wasn’t here, of course, but safely hidden away. It was far too fragile to be carried about.

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “You’ll speak with the others when we arrive?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Those that I can,” Shay confirmed. “You know your part?”

The boy smirked. “Take the extreme position. The Assassins know what I am, so I’ll suggest something ridiculous, something they’ll expect. A governor or president for life, maybe.”

Shay snorted. “ _That_ should go over well.”

Alexander laughed. “Well, no one will listen to me after, but that’s rather the point.” It was a calculated risk. Removing Alexander from the debates was a pity, but it would give the Assassins the illusion of victory. Let them _think_ they knew what the Templars wanted, let them believe their enemies had defeated themselves, let them imagine they had a chance.

They never had.

“I’m not going to be able to speak with everyone,” Shay mused. “And some I shouldn’t speak to at all. Randolph, I’ll meet if I can – but neither of us can risk being seen with the Pinckneys.”

“I can speak with Gouverneur Morris,” Alexander suggested. “He’s from New York originally, so it shouldn’t raise undue suspicion.”

“And Gouverneur can reach out to Robert Morris and James Wilson,” Shay agreed. “I’ll be staying with Franklin, of course, and _he’s_ completely ignorant. It’ll give the others a good excuse to visit me.” He scowled bitterly, glaring at his leg. “Father knows, _I’m_ not going anywhere.”

“I thought Bayley said it would heal?” Alexander asked, with some concern.

“Just about,” Shay acknowledged. “But I’m to avoid using it much until then, or it won’t.” He hoped Connor appreciated the irony; it was hardly lost on Shay.

“You really didn’t need to go to Davenport,” Alexander noted. “ _I_ could have burned it, if you wished.”

Shay shook his head, recalling the flames consuming his one-time home. “No, you couldn’t have. This… It was something I needed to do. Something I’ve needed to do for a long time.” Long before Connor had begun attacking the Rite, if he was being honest. In the end, revenge had had surprisingly little to do with it. “I needed to see it burn,” he said after a time, “so I could finally put it behind.” It had given him peace, somehow. Redemption in ashes.

Alexander looked long and hard at the Grandmaster, before finally turning away. “Washington will be chosen to preside,” he said awkwardly.

“Probably,” Shay agreed. “He’ll use it to excuse himself from the debates; he knows the influence he wields.”

“But he’ll support the result?”

“Undoubtedly,” Shay assured him, “if we achieve our ends.”

“But we can’t abolish slavery,” Alexander accused.

“I tried, lad,” Shay said sadly, “but we’ll never get the southern States if we do.”

“I know,” Alexander admitted, words bitter. “And I understand. The Union comes first.” He sighed despondently. “I just wish…”

“It’ll happen,” Shay promised. “Not today; not here. But we _will_ bring that foul practice to an end.”

The two men turned their faces forward to Philadelphia, and the future which would begin there.

* * *

Randolph was the first to arrive, presumably to pay his respects to Dr. Franklin, who was, unfortunately, not in. Naturally, he decided to wait. Just as naturally, Shay was in the sitting room, resting his leg and thumbing through his well-worn copy of the Patris Intellectica.

“Some,” Randoph said quietly, “would call you a heretic, if they saw you with that.”

“Some have,” Shay chuckled, setting the text aside, “but I’m too damn effective for them to ignore.” He smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you, Edmund. You’ve been well?”

“Quite,” the man agreed. “You wished to see me, Grandmaster?”

Shay nodded. “I have a task for you – a risky one.”

Randolph raised a brow. “Oh?”

“It will reveal you to the Assassins,” the Grandmaster warned him, “and I cannot guarantee your safety. I cannot even guarantee my own.”

“’Do so until death, whatever the cost’,” Randolph quoted. “What do you need of me, Grandmaster?”

“I need you to find the opposition to our enterprise,” Shay said, unconsciously rubbing his left thumb against the tip of the ring finger, “and join them.” He was sending Randoph to die, he knew, just as he had Arthur. Such was the tragedy of leadership. Sacrifice a pawn to capture a queen... But he was sacrificing men – good and honorable men – to capture a Nation and prove an ideology. “When the time is right, you will turn on them. Your change of heart in support of our cause will undermine their work in its entirety.”

“I understand,” Randolph said hoarsely, and Shay knew he did.

* * *

William Samuel Johnson was next, under similar pretense. “So, I am to advocate for the small States,” he mused. “Very well.”

Shay smiled. “But look for a compromise. You have great skill as a negotiator; I need you to ensure matters do not get out of hand – not between the delegates, and not between members of our Order.”

Johnson gazed at him intently. “You cannot do the latter yourself?” he demanded bluntly.

_Sharp man,_ the Grandmaster noted ruefully. “I won’t be in the Hall,” Shay pointed out. He hesitated a moment, then continued. “Connor will be coming for me. Assuming I survive – and I hope to –” – _However futile it is–_ “he needs to believe he’s chased me off. I couldn’t risk meeting with you often enough, regardless.”

“True,” Johnson agreed, frowning. “I will do as you ask, Grandmaster.” He suddenly smiled. “Perhaps Haytham was right to choose you, after all. Your ideas may be… radical–”

“You mean ‘heretical,’” Shay corrected dryly.

“Perhaps,” Johnson admitted. “But if you can make it work… Does it really matter?”

* * *

John Dickinson was an old and dear friend, and one of the two most honorable men Shay had ever known. It was what had brought him here, and why they were having this conversation.

“Your word,” Shay insisted. “You will repeat nothing I tell you here?”

“I will not,” Dickinson agreed. “Does this mean you will finally trust me?”

“I always have,” Shay said grimly. “It was for your sake, I remained silent. But I know of no one more deserving of the truth.” He told his old friend then: of the Templars and Assassins, of their eternal war between Order and Chaos, the never-ending quest for true peace, and his own journey through it. “Do you understand?” he asked, hours later.

“I do,” Dickinson replied, but the Grandmaster could already hear the answer in his voice. “I sympathize with your cause, Shay, but my first loyalty is, and shall remain, to this Nation and her people. I _cannot_ give you my oath.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, John,” Shay said sadly, carefully studying his old friend.

“It is a matter of integrity, Shay,” Dickinson explained. “I cannot be twice sworn.”

Shay relaxed slightly, hearing the truth in those words. “There’s not a man who does not know of your integrity, John. It’s why I hoped to recruit you. I could use a man willing to stand by what he believes, no matter the cost to himself.” Well, maybe he wasn’t _quite_ willing to give up.

“You give me too much credit, Shay,” Dickinson said firmly.

The Grandmaster smiled warmly at the other man. “Not every man would be willing to sacrifice his position and power, because he is unwilling to sign something he believes wrong, no matter that it will be sent regardless. Too few hold to what they believe when the bill is due.” Dickinson had resigned from Congress, rather than sign a Declaration of Independence he believed premature – and immediately thereafter, picked up a weapon to fight for the freedom of the new Nation he loved. There were few people Shay respected more.

Dickinson flushed slightly at the praise. “I disagree, though I am flattered you think so highly of me. Still, I must refuse your offer, however much I agree with your goals.” Which was something, at least.

“If you change your mind…?” Shay offered again, smiling.

“I will not,” Dickinson refused somberly. “But Shay: so long as the deeds of your Order serve this Nation, know you will have a friend in John Dickinson.” It was a promise: a blessing and warning in one.

“I understand,” Shay said, and did.

* * *

The others came and went throughout the next few days, receiving their instructions. Sherman was to be the voice of moderation, favoring reform of the Articles. Strong would argue for the larger States. Robert Morris stopped by to check on Franklin, who had taken ill, confirming in Shay’s hearing his dedication to ensuring the new government could tax.

“The Pinckneys will play their parts,” Alexander informed Shay the evening of the 24th. “Cotesworth will argue against the popular vote, compromise on the slave trade, and ensure the army will not be limited.”

“And Charles?” Shay asked.

“Will ensure habeas corpus. He also plans to move the process along and canvass with the other delegates. He has his own plan drawn up too, but Madison’s will likely rule the day.”

“Good,” Shay said, “but keep an eye on him. He’s eager – sometimes overly so.”

“Aren’t we all?” A third voice spoke up. Shay smiled at the newcomer.

“James Wilson. I assume you’re here to see Franklin? He’s asleep, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, Mistress Bache told me,” the judge said. “Pity. I suppose I’ll have to settle for you, Grandmaster.” He sat down on the settee, glancing about the room. “Ah, Codex Pater Intellecticus! Marvelous read.”

“De Molay _does_ have some interesting ideas,” Shay said blandly.

“Which you are putting into effect, of course.” The judge chuckled as a fourth man entered the room.

“Grandmaster, Judge Wilson, Mr. Hamilton,” Nathaniel Gorham said, inclining his head to each in turn.

“Mr. Gorham,” Shay replied. “You understand your instructions?”

“Preside when Washington does not,” Gorham answered evenly.

“Excellent.” Shay smiled at the men before him. “Then I think we’re ready.” He rose, removing his tome from the prepared table.

“Mr. Gorham,” Shay began, “you recommend Rufus King to our order?”

“I do,” Gorham replied firmly.

“I have here,” Shay continued, “a recommendation from Roger Sherman regarding Oliver Ellsworth. Do any here object?”

Silence answered him.

“I have here,” Shay said again, “a recommendation from Charles Cotesworth Pinckney regarding John Rutledge. Do any here object?”

Once again, there was silence.

“Send them in,” Shay ordered, calm and firm.

The three men entered: King eager, Rutledge calm, and Ellsworth nervous. Shay smiled warmly, as they laid down their ceremonial blades.

“Do you swear to uphold the principals of our Order and all that for which we stand?” The Grandmaster’s voice was calm and firm. Long ago he had sworn these oaths. He had never regretted them.

One by one, the men answered. “I do.”

“And never to share our secrets, nor divulge the true nature of our work?” Tomorrow, that work began in truth, and soon the Order as a whole would know it.

Again, the men answered, each in turn. “I do.”

“And to so from now until death – whatever the cost?” He had paid the price before, and would do so again gladly. Their cause was worth the price, however steep.

With one voice, the men replied. “I do.”

“Then we welcome you into our fold, brothers. You are now Templars, harbingers of a New World.” _A world we begin tomorrow._ “May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

“May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

Shay offered the men their rings, warmly clasping their hands in turn. “Welcome,” he said, meaning every word. “I know you’ll do us proud.”

It had long since become part of the ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Richard Bayley - A New York doctor, he was the first chief health officer of the city. He was a loyalist, but the passing of his first wife forced him to retire from the British Army in 1777. He discovered the epidemiology of Yellow Fever, and taught anatomy in King's College. he was one of the early practitioners of cataract surgery. His primary patients were the poor of New York and he created the New York dispensary. Oh, and his daughter was the first native-born American citizen to become a Saint. A very nice man all around, he was murdered by the Assassins in 1801.
> 
> Disciples - lowest ranking members of the Templar Order. Like you.
> 
> General of the Cross - We do not discuss this. And no, I don't know who he is. Or she, for that matter. Maybe they're non-binary...
> 
> Gouverneur Morris - Delegate from New York. Wrote the most famous preamble in American History: "We the People." Sometimes known as the Penman of the United States Constitution, he was an outspoken opponent of slavery. He was murdered by the Assassin Io:nhiote, who decided to avenge her father on every Templar she could find.
> 
> James Wilson - the man who proposed the electoral college. Also one of the creators of the 3/5ths compromise. He served on the Committee of Detail, which helped produce the first draft of the US Constitution and he later served on the Supreme Court.
> 
> Codex Pater Intellectica - Or Patris, as Shay's copy seems to say. Considered a somewhat heretical text now and a VERY heretical text then, it was written by Jacques de Molay and has rather interesting interpretation of what it means to be a Templar. Probably best known for being the Bible of Thomas Germain, Shay Cormac actually did a better job making it's ideals a reality. He's certainly the reason those concepts entered the mainstream - not that anyone had much of a choice once he was done.
> 
> William Samuel Johnson - He's a big reason we have a Senate, as he fought for the rights of the Small States to have equal representation. He later supported the Connecticut compromise, which led directly to the Great Compromise. Oh, and he served on the Committee of Style. Actually, the only non-Templar on the Committee was James Madison. Like a great many other Templars, he was murdered by Io:nhiote.
> 
> John Dickinson - not a Templar, but he was an ally. Probably best known for refusing to sign the Declaration of Independence (thank you musical1776!), he was also the creator of the Liberty Song, which was essentially the Nation's first anthem. Also the reason the US Constitution says 'Person' and 'People', not 'Man'. Thomas Jefferson could take some lessons on equality. In more than one way; by 1787 Dickinson had freed all the slaves he had once owned and become an abolitionist.
> 
> Mistress Bache - Franklin's daughter, with whom the old man lived.
> 
> Nathanial Gorham - Served on the Committee of Detail, and presided over the Convention when Washington would not (so, most of the time.) He later helped to get Massachusetts to ratify the Constitution, which the Assassins did not make easy. He was murdered in 1796. Three guesses as to who was responsible - and the first two don't count.
> 
> Oliver Ellsworth - Was on the Committee of Detail and the third Chief Justice. Second if we don't count John Rutledge. He was also played a role in ensuring the United States was a Federation, instead of a single national entity. Not that most of the US seems to be aware of that little fact these days... He was murdered by Assassins in 1807.
> 
> John Rutledge - Second Chief Justice of the US. As President of South Carolina he helped to repulse the British. He later chaired the Committee of Detail, and advocated that executive power be held in the hands of a single individual. He's also the reason the Supreme Court can't give advisory opinions, and held that the Court (and legal people as a whole) were a higher tier of society. he also fiercely advocated against only allowing land-owners to vote, noting that this would divide the haves and have-nots. He survived an assassination attempt in 1795 (which was believed to be a suicide attempt) but died in 1800. He's somewhat controversial among Templars, as he broke from the rest of the Rite in defying the Jay treaty.
> 
> AUthor's Notes:  
> So now you know where Shay was while Connor was off in Canada - stuck in bed. He did NOT enjoy it... and neither did anyone else. Oh well.
> 
> We finally get to the Constitutional Convention! Hurray! This is Chapter One of the Whose Who of the Constitutional Convention. There will be a second. between those two chapters I manage to name more than half the delegates, which I'm pretty happy about. 
> 
> And yes, Shay's Templars literally wrote the US Constitution. The Assassins, however, wrote the Bill of Rights. And between them we got a pretty decent government. Now, if only Congress would reclaim the power it idiotically gave the President...


	37. 1787: Chapter 11

The Grandmaster met with Washington and Madison early the next morning. “Give us a good government,” he told the men, clasping their hands warmly. “Father knows we need one.”

“I will do my best,” George promised, voice low and intent.

“We  will have a Nation,” Madison vowed fervently, “one which can withstand all the tests of time.”

Shay smiled warmly at the two men. “If anyone can, it’s the two of you.” 

  
As they headed toward Independence Hall, he pulled Madison back, feeling the tingling sensation of eyes watching. “Make certain George presides,” he murmured. “We could ask for no better guarantee of ratification.”

“Agreed,” James replied, equally low. “I’ll see it done.”

“You’re a good man, James,” Shay told him, as the delegates filed in. “Make sure those fools pull us together, not tear us apart.”

“I will,” Madison said, joining his fellows. Shay watched as the doors closed behind the last man. 

“Father of Understanding,” he whispered fervently as he turned away, “ guide them. ” The crowds began to thin, and, with their departure, the whispers began.

The Grandmaster sighed, blending with the clustered groups, ensuring he was never wholly alone. So long as he was surrounded by innocent civilians, Connor could not risk attacking. Not when Shay could dodge before any attack was evident. It would be too easy for an innocent to be harmed.

It was the same reason Shay refused to use berserk darts around civilians. The risk wasn’t worth it.  _I don’t need the Creed to stay my Blade_ , he thought bitterly. Not that he always had; not that he always could. Not that the Assassins did , either. Was  it enough to try? He doubted it.

The Grandmaster continued moving with the crowds until the shadows grew short and the whispers faded away.

* * *

He didn’t expect the arrow. It slammed through the window, shattering the glass and embedding itself in the Grandmaster’s shoulder.  _Smart boy_ , Shay thought, as he broke off the haft. The whispers were limited by distance and tied to the attacker. By attacking from afar, the Assassin could surprise him.

Fortunately, the breaking glass had given Shay enough warning to avoid a fatal wound. Now, if he could just  delay the boy long enough. He set his back against the door, hand on the knob. “Very good. But you’ve already lost.”

“Your rebellion has failed,” the Assassin said coolly, watching him carefully.

A bit premature, but not terrible. “ Of course it has. It was supposed to.” The Grandmaster kept his guard up, slowly turning the knob.

“You wanted it to fail.” Connor’s eyes were hard, narrowed, and he advanced slowly, catlike, on the balls of his feet. Did he think Shay was going to risk poison or grenades in Franklin’s home ?

_Probably_ , Shay admitted.  _I’d probably use them too_. Well, if the boy wanted confirmation, the Grandmaster would give it to him. “Naturally.” He leaned back, ready.

The Assassin lunged. “ I  stopped you!” He snarled, striking.

Or attempted it. Shay fell back through the door, slamming it behind him, the Blades impacting the wood. It seemed Connor knew he’d been  used, and didn’t much like it. “And you did so beautifully,” Shay taunted, leaning back against the door,  listening . “I’d have expected nothing less from Haytham’s boy.”

He felt the pressure, as the Assassin shoved against the door. When Connor spoke again, his voice was calm. “Don’t call me that.”

Shay smirked. “As you will, Mister Kenway.”

“Nor that.” The  whispers screamed, and Shay rolled forward, the tomahawk smashing through the wood, missing his head by inches. It seemed the boy had picked up some cunning somewhere.

“ Ratonhnhake:ton ,” Shay offered, retreating, as the Assassin wrested his axe from the remains of the door.

“Connor is fine,” the Assassin snapped, something deeply bitter in his voice. “I’d prefer not to hear you mutilate my name,  colonist .” 

_ Something happened with your  people? _ The Grandmaster had no time to think on it , though. He hurried toward the stair, cursing at the pain flaring up his leg. “Very well,  Connor, ”  Shay snapped, pain making him angry.

“You played me,” the Assassin snarled, rage lacing every word. “All this time…” He leaped forward,  whispers screaming. Shay swung himself onto the rail, sliding down the stair. The things he learned from his children… “I thought we could work together,” Connor continued, softer now, sorrowful. “But it was all a trick.”

Shay frowned, answering automatically. “I  did warn you. I told you peace between us wasn’t possible.” Hadn’t they already…

“My father thought it was.” 

It struck him suddenly, hard and fast.  _ He’s trying to guilt me,  _ Shay realized , proud and rueful all at once. _He has learned._ Not that it would work. 

“And later realized the folly. We stand on opposite sides.” He slipped into the sitting room, shoving a couch in front of the door. The Grandmaster took a breath, his leg throbbing. There was little point in leaving now; it was too late for crowds and Shay couldn’t run. He’d just have to keep delaying, and hope the Father was feeling kindly.

“Maybe we don’t have to.”

_He’s a terrible liar_ , Shay noted idly, making his way to the far door. He gave the boy points for trying.

“Still trying to convince me?” Two could play that game, and Shay was the more experienced. “I’ve been both. Believed in both. And I’m telling you, it isn’t possible.” He couldn’t  quite keep the wistful note from his voice. He didn’t try. The best lies always carried a hint of truth , and Shay  had believed in peace once, long ago.

There was a pause, then Connor said firmly, “I don’t believe that.” He threw the door open, knocking the couch askew. Shay promptly slammed the hall door behind him, the lock clicking into place, for what little good it would do.

“Then you’re as much a fool as I was,” he called, heading backward toward the front door, “back when I wore the hood.”

There was a loud  _ snap! _ as the lock gave way. “Why do it?” the Assassin demanded, moving quickly now.

Too late; Shay had already reached the vestibule. “Hmmm?” – Damn it. – Where _had_ Sarah put his pistols?

“Why start a rebellion, just to see it fail?” 

_Doesn’t he… Oh._ Connor wanted information. Fine. Shay would take any time he was given. “For what it would lead to.” There were his pistols, half-hidden under his coat. He edged toward them – away from the Assassin.

“Which is?” Connor seemed more relaxed now, his eyes intent, now that his prey was cornered.

_ He knows my death won’t stop  _ _me_ , Shay realized.  _ He’s holding back, hoping I’ll give him something. _ Which meant the Grandmaster still had a  chance.

“The government here was too weak,” he explained, surprised at how much he  wanted the boy to understand. “Thirteen States with thirteen currencies, and a fourteenth for the Federation.” So , he was exaggerating a little. It was hardly the point. “They were already talking; they just needed a push. I gave them that.” He was next to the coat rack now.

“You really think I’ll let this happen?” The Assassin was moving forward again, but slowly, hoping the Grandmaster would reveal more.  Keep him talking…

“You think you have a choice?” Shay asked wearily, slowly reaching up. He made sure to meet the Assassin’s gaze, keeping Connor’s eyes locked on his own. “It’s already happening. The States will bend before the Federation government.” Live or die, it didn’t matter. And if Connor misunderstood, well, so much the better.

“We’ll see,” the Assassin said, stepping forward.

“We will.” Shay’s hand brushed the pistol. Connor lunged.  _ Damn it! _

“You won’t,” the Assassin snarled, the weapon flying across the room. It discharged, and the two flung themselves from the ball’s wild path. They stared at each other from opposite ends of the tiny room. Through ringing ears, Shay  heard the sound of horseshoes on cobbles.  _ Finally! _

“True that,” the Grandmaster said lightly, acutely aware of both danger and salvation. “It’s high time I returned to Europe anyway.” He slid under the tomahawk, striking out at the Assassins legs. Connor jumped, dropping the weapon, switching to Blades. “I’ve been neglecting my duties there.”  – _ Make him curious… _

“I’m hardly about to let you go, Hunter, no matter what Achilles asked.” – _Hunter?_ – “Not after what you did here.” – _Davenport_ , Shay realized, his back slamming into the wall. “You’re far too dangerous.” The tip of Connor’s blade caught on the fine silk of his shirt, and Shay shut his eyes as the fine threads gave way. He could feel the cold metal against his chest, the world shattering, his heartbeat racing in his ears. _I wish we could have met_ _,_ he thought, knowing he would never see his child born.

The door opened and Benjamin Franklin walked in, leaning on his cane. He was shouting something, sounding alarmed.  _ Didn’t expect to walk  into a murder, did he? _ Connor allowed the inventor to pull him back, looking furious. Shay slid  bonelessly to the ground.

The Grandmaster took a shaky breath, opened his eyes, and  smirked. “Again, lad. You don’t have a choice – Ah, Benjamin!” He exclaimed, as the old inventor offered him a hand. “My thanks again for the ride.”  – _ Pity you couldn’t show up on  time . _ Shay pulled on his coat, hands still trembling.

“My pleasure, Shay!” Franklin said, clearly wanting to ask, but knowing better. “A few more moments with a good friend – are you  quite certain you can’t stay?”

“I’m afraid not, old friend,” Shay said firmly, picking up his fallen pistol. It  seemed fine, but he would have to check it carefully later. The  Kalthoffs were damned  finnicky. “I seem to have quite worn out my welcome.” Shay glanced over at Connor, the Assassin looking thunderous as he retrieved his axe.

“Oh, not at all!” Benjamin said, glancing curiously between Templar and Assassin. Shay had no intention of indulging him,  and he doubted Connor would either.

Instead, he put on his hat, pulling the tip low. “Good luck to you, Connor,” the Grandmaster said, surprised to find he meant it.

“You’ll forgive me if the sympathy is not reciprocated,” the Assassin replied, his dark eyes promising death.

Shay  swallowed, his mouth dry. His chest tingled were the Blade had nearly struck. “Then , I suppose,” he said, feigning calm as he met his enemy’s eyes, “it’s a good thing I make my own.”

* * *

It wasn’t until he was safely ensconced in the carriage that Shay could breathe again. “I don’t suppose the ‘doctor’ in your title implies medical experience?”

The old inventor chuckled. “I’m afraid not, Shay. Why, do you need one?”

“I have an arrow in my shoulder,” Shay said flatly, automatically checking over his pistol, the familiar motions soothing.  _ I’ll use the second, _ he decided. Best not to risk the thing jamming.

“Dr. Rush can see to you,” Franklin said cheerfully, giving the coachman the order. 

Shay smiled gratefully. “So long as he doesn’t bleed me.” The doctor was infamous for it.

Franklin frowned as he turned back. “You know I’ve never asked about your business, Shay,” he began awkwardly, “but it  is my house…”

Shay winced. “I’ll pay you for the damage, Benjamin, and I’m sorry for it. Mentor Connor and I had a… philosophical dispute… that, well, got a bit out of hand.” Admittedly, it had gotten out of hand around the time Cain killed Abel, but still…

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” the inventor asked shrewdly.

“Trust me,” Shay said firmly. “You’re safer not knowing.”

“I’m a  scientist , Shay,” Franklin protested. “Telling me not to ask is… Why, it’s nearly sacrilegious!” 

Shay chuckled. “Which is why I’m  not telling you not to  ask. ”

Franklin sighed exaggeratedly. “You’re being very unkind to my curiosity, Shay.”

“You’ll survive,” the Grandmaster replied dryly.

* * *

It was well past dark when Shay emerged from Dr. Rush’s offices, his shoulder neatly wrapped. Franklin had remained with him throughout, understanding without being told the necessity of his continued presence. “Are you  certain you want me to leave you here?” the inventor asked now, his concern evident, as they approached the hiring stables.

“I do,” Shay confirmed,  listening to the unceasing  whispers. They had not stopped once since Franklin’s. The Grandmaster could not  see the Assassin, but he knew exactly where Connor was. It would have to be enough; Shay needed to  heal and he couldn’t do that with Connor dogging his heels.

This ended here.

“Well,” Franklin said, sighing sadly. “I’d wish you luck, but I know what you’d say.” He looked sorrowfully at Shay. “It seems I’m doomed to lose a friend today.”

“I’m afraid so,” Shay admitted guiltily. He had no desire to cause his old friend pain, but it was inevitable. He clasped Franklin’s hand warmly. “Keep those delegates in line, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Franklin said, feigning cheer, but grief shone bright in his damp eyes. “ Do take care of yourself, Shay.”

“And you,” the Grandmaster replied. He watched the carriage roll away, whirling about as the whispers screamed .

The Assassin dodged the first shot easily, ready for the attack. Not so the second, immediately following the first.  The ball shot through Connor’s side, spraying blood as it emerged. The Assassin stumbled, barely dodging the third, eyes wide as it followed on the heels of the  second . The fourth shot took him in the arm, the bone giving with a sharp  _SNAP_! The fifth landed in the meat of the Assassin’s thigh. The sixth broke the leg entirely, forcing Connor to the ground.

Shay flicked the trigger of his pistol, the seventh ball slotting into place. The entire fight had taken seconds. He hadn’t had to reload once.

“How?!” Connor asked blankly, his face paling as blood pooled around him.

Shay smirked, aiming carefully. “ Kalthoff Repeater,” he answered, knowing it would mean nothing to the defeated man before him. He sighted down the barrel, finger resting on the trigger.

He was reminded, suddenly, of another night, another gun, ten years before. A rifle on a rooftop in Massachusetts, a Hunter’s eyes looking down the barrel, this Assassin’s father in its sights. How long had he stood there, watching Haytham pace, finger on the trigger? That night… He had turned the weapon aside that night, and they had reconciled before morning.

There would be no reconciliation here, but he turned the weapon aside all the same. “In my room at Franklin’s,” he said, voice distant, mind far away, “in the drawer on the lower right, you’ll find your father’s journal.”

A moment more , he stared at the boy, before turning and walking away.  _ “I have a  son ,”  _ Haytham had said that night, face grim and eyes full of awe.

He still did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Benjamin Rush - sometimes called the Father of American Psychology, he was one of the first to recognize addiction as an illness. A delegate to the Constitutional Convention, he was also a bit backward medically and was known to be overly fond of bleeding which possibly caused the deaths of several Founding Fathers. Rush was also one of the very few men to have had recruitment attempts by both Templars and Assassins. He turned them both down.
> 
> Kalthoff Repeater: Invented in the late 1600s, it could fire multiple shots without needing to be reloaded. It was also very expensive, highly finicky, and needed unique parts for repairs - which were often needed (see: finicky). On the other hand, multiple shot pistols weren’t invented again until about a hundred and fifty years later. So if you had one - and it worked - it made for a VERY nasty surprise. 
> 
> AUthor’s Note: And now you know why Shay missed a good chunk of the Revolution.


	38. 1787: Chapter 12

“What  is a Kalthoff Repeater?” Connor asked Franklin. The old inventor had been the one to find him, returning to the stables with Dr. Rush in tow. It had been a wise move; though Cormac had turned away, the blood loss had nearly proven fatal on its own. Two weeks had passed since the confrontation, and the Assassin was still recovering.

“An antique handgun,” Franklin replied promptly, “invented almost a hundred years ago.”

Connor frowned. “It does not need to reload,” he said. “Why are they not more common?”

“Oh, many reasons,” Franklin answered. “Money, chiefly. They were very expensive to make. Each pistol is unique too, and they jammed all the time. An excellent weapon when it worked, but not the sort of thing you could outfit an army with – though it didn’t stop some king from trying.”

Connor’s frown deepened. “Cormac has one.”

“He has three,” Franklin corrected. “An original – he keeps it on display – and two recreations. Some French silversmith – German, or something similar – made them for him. Those are the ones Shay uses.”

“How _do_ you know him?” Connor asked, half expecting to hear the Templar had ‘saved’ another influential man’s life.

The answer was something else entirely. 

“He helped Hope – a woman I used to work with – with an experiment. Some sort of ancient Egyptian technology, or so they claimed. I’ve never seen an Egyptian artifact like that before, or since!”

Connor’s eyes widened. Hope had been a Colonial Assassin – one of the ones Cormac had killed. If they had been working together… “And after?” Connor asked.

“Well, Hope asked me to make an air launcher for her, and Shay came to pick it up.” Connor had seen the weapon used; he had not expected it to be made for Assassins. “I was leaving for overseas, so it was some time before I learned she never received it.” Connor’s eyes narrowed. “She was rather shocked to learn he was alive, from what I understood. Sometime later, she informed me they were no longer acquainted.” 

Connor snorted, imagining the looks on the Assassins’ faces upon receiving  that missive, but his mirth faded as he considered it further.  _Were they happy_ , he wondered, _ or angry? _

“But you stayed friends,” he said.

Franklin nodded. “We kept in touch, over the years. We haven’t see n each other often, what with his travels and mine. Perhaps it’s for the best; the strangest things seem to happen when we do.”

“I can imagine,” Connor said wryly. What  _ had _ Franklin thought upon walking in on an attempted murder in his vestibule?

The inventor chortled, perhaps recalling the same. “I suppose you  can ; trouble seems to follow  you nearly as much as  him. ” He smiled fondly. “I remember once, he had me get him into Versailles, and the next thing I knew, some man was stabbed in a crowded room and no one saw a thing! Always  did wonder how Shay managed it, but I know better than to ask.”

Of course he did. The past few days had impressed on Connor just how shrewd the old man really was. Behind the cheery nature and the absent-minded scientist, lay a sharp and canny mind, observing everything. “How much  do you know?” Connor asked carefully.

“Enough to know knowing might be bad for my health,” Franklin said lightly, “and my gout is bad enough on its own.” His face grew stern. “But I would prefer if you and Shay kept your ‘philosophical differences’ out of my house; I doubt it could survive a second – nor I my daughter’s wrath!”

* * *

Benjamin Rush returned the next day to look over Connor’s wounds. “You’re either lucky,” he informed the Assassin, “or Shay is just an excellent shot. Both breaks were clean. Avoid undue exertion while they heal, and you’ll be fine.”

“I understand,” Connor agreed, relieved on more than one account. He had been concerned when Franklin and Cormac visited the doctor, but his fears had been unfounded. Rush was not a Templar, though he was aware of them.

“I don’t suppose,” Connor asked now, “You’ve reconsidered…?”

The doctor chuckled. “I’m afraid not, Mentor Connor. As I told your father years ago, my loyalty is to the  Hippocratic  Oath, not that of the Templars – nor the Assassins, I’m afraid. But I am honored, all the same.”

Connor nodded, accepting the refusal. Still… “I have another request, then.”

“Oh?”

“You are a delegate to the Convention.”

“I am,” Rush affirmed. “But I cannot speak of it; we have sworn an oath of secrecy until our work is done.”

“And  I would not ask you to defy it,” Connor assured him. “But I  would ask that you ensure our rights are not trampled upon during the proceedings. A strong government is of no worth if it is not  just .”

“Agreed,” Rush said firmly. He paused, looking thoughtfully at the Assassin. “Grandmaster Cormac said much the same, you know.”

“Did he?” That was… odd.

Rush nodded. “Your two sides goals seem much aligned in this matter; have you never considered peace?”

“I have,” Connor acknowledged, “many times. But it will not be with  him .”

“Are you so certain?” Rush demanded.

“No,” Connor admitted, remembering the man turning away. “But  he is.”

* * *

Haytham Kenway’s journal was exactly where Cormac had said it would be. Why the Grandmaster had chosen to save it and, even more curious, chosen to return it, remained a mystery to Connor. He was glad, though not grateful, all the same.

He lifted the journal, frowning as he did. Connor knew his father’s journal well, and it was not the same. It was heavier, and the threads binding it were new. Eyes narrowed, the Assassin began flipping through the pages. The first pages remained unchanged, exactly as he remembered, detailing his father’s childhood. But the later ones…

‘ _George Monro is a good man, as Birch has told me; perhaps one of the best I have known. He is soft spoken, with a kind heart. Too kind_ _ ,  at times, and I fear this is one of them. Some weeks  ago , I sent him to scout near Rockport, where we had heard rumors of an Assassin sanctuary. It was there he came across a young man, half frozen, with a bullet in his back. _

_The man is an Assassin, one whom, so William informs me, is believed to be responsible for the deaths of many of our number…_ ’

The entry continued, but Connor turned the page, eyes wide. There were  years of entries here, telling the tale of the Seven Years War, the Great Purge, the years leading up to the Revolution …

‘ _I shall finally have the opportunity to meet Shay Cormac, though the circumstances are hardly ideal. I had scarcely stepped foot on the docks when the news of George Monro’s death arrived._ _ He was killed by an Assassin, despite the best efforts of his recruit. Christopher tells me that Cormac ran into a burning building to rescue the Colonel, but Monro, regrettably, succumbed to his wounds soon after. Cormac certainly has courage, and a remarkable loyalty. I can only hope it will serve our cause as well as his recruiter._

  
_“I find I am uncertain of my feelings in regards to Monro’s death. He was a good man, and always acted in a manner kind and true. But he was sent to me by Birch and, in light of_ _what I have discovered..._ ’

  
  
Connor moved onward, flipping through the pages. He would return to these entries later, in a more sanguine mind, and study them in greater depth.

“ _... There is a fire in our newest member, a passion that infuses his every act. It reminds me of my earlier days, before I learned of the lies that have defined the entirety of my life. I will have to be careful with this young man. Properly cultivated, he will be the most loyal of Templars. Untended, however... well, the Assassins have already learned their folly and I have no intention of repeating their mistakes._

_  
_ _“Word has reached me of the whereabouts of the Experto Crede. Her captain, the Assassin Adéwalé, once sailed with my father..._ ’

  
  
_I know this story_ , Connor realized. Cormac had told it to him, resting high in the Morrigan’s rigging, the old man’s words painting a picture of the father Connor had never truly known.

‘“ _What kind of world are we making, if we cannot show mercy?” Those haunting words stayed my hand today, and I can only hope I do not have cause to regret it. I did not leave Achilles entirely unscathed, of course. Doing so would have been foolish, whatever Shay might have preferred._

_“He does not say_ _it, but I know he hopes we might forge some sort of peace with the Assassins. In convincing me to spare Achilles, he believes we may have taken the first steps to that end. I am not nearly as convinced, yet... It is the same unspoken desire I have harbored for years. Perhaps we two, who carry within us both Templar and Assassin, might succeed where so many_ _before us failed, and bring about a true and lasting peace between our Orders.”_

  
  
Haytham had tried, and Connor had turned his back on his father. And Shay Cormac had, in turn, betrayed the truce the Assassin offered. In the end, both men had given up on peace.  _But I still hope_ , Connor thought. He was not ready to give up on the possibility, not yet.

He moved forward again, wondering.  _ What happened to you, to the man who  sought a world of mercy ? _

‘ _There has been a frightening emptiness in Shay’s eyes since Ruth was stolen from us. I had hoped the death of the Assassin responsible might, in some manner, alleviate his pain, but it has not been so. With nowhere to focus his grief, it has turned on him, and left him adrift, purposeless. I fear Shay may soon follow his wife into the Father’s embrace, if I cannot find a task to set him upon._

_”With no further leads on the Precursor Box, I have chosen to reach out to my allies in Europe. There are very few Templars who can boast of Assassin skills, and the journey may do Shay good. It will give him a task to focus on, if nothing else._

‘ _As I am intent on sending their father away, I will have to ensure...’_

_George Monro and Robyn had alluded to these events_ , Connor recalled.  Shay’s grief had kept him far from the States for years.  _ A pity he refuses to stay away  now. _

‘ _The Aquila and her Assassin crew have caused us a great deal of grief over these past months. For once Achilles does not appear to be responsible; the events surrounding Ruth’s murder had_ _ a quelling effect on him and he has refrained from reaching out to his allies since. He is, however, entirely unwilling to help us against them either. _

_   
“I have chosen to recall Shay from his quest for the lost Artifacts of Order. I can only hope it reaches him; per his last missive, he was headed to the mythical continent of Australia, in the company of a French silversmith...’ _   
  


_Artifacts of Order_ , Connor  read, frowning . Pieces of Eden, most likely, like the Apple the Assassin once held. If Cormac had found such items, he had never said.

“ _It is rare pleasure to indulge in the more joyous duties of a Grandmaster. Today was one such occasion. Magdalene was a radiant bride, made all the moreso by her happy condition. Shay was smiling as he has not in years...’_

Connor had not known his father had officiated over the wedding. Strangely, he found himself glad Cormac had found love again. Enemies they might be, but he would not begrudge his foe joy.

‘ _I have received disturbing news from Madame de la Serre. It seems Shay’s silversmith friend has been cast out of our Order for heresy; heresy in which she believes Shay to be complicit. While I do not believe de Molay’s ideas to be quite as heretical as Madame de la Serre makes them out to be, Shay’s devotion to them, and his friendship with banished Thomas Germain, is concerning. Even moreso in light of the intelligence I recently received from Britain...’_

Connor frowned as scanned the entry. Cormac had been subverting his father’s attempts at peace? But why? And who – or what – was de Molay, and why was Haytham so certain those teachings were responsible for Cormac’s disobedience?

‘ _I will likely die tonight, and by my own folly. Some men would rage against their fate; others would drink themselves to oblivion. I have chosen to reflect._

_ Shay returned to these States yesterday, in the company of  Thomas Germain . To say that matters did not improve from there…’ _

Connor blinked, and reread the page, the read it over a third time. Cormac had tried to  kill his father? Or, no, merely considered? Perhaps not even that.  _ I might never have met him, _ Connor realized with dawning horror. It hurt to imagine, even more than the ever-present grief at his father’s end.

But Haytham had  not died in 1777. Had perhaps not been in any danger, despite his fears. As the next entry made clear, the two men had reconciled, long years of friendship defeating the rage of a single, albeit harsh, argument.

‘ _I have survived the night and reconciled with Shay. I find, writing this, I am still surprised by it. Perhaps I should not be. Shay has always been loyal to his friends, though his cause, whatever it may be, will always come first._ _ I have convinced him to refrain from killing my son, though I had to reveal the true nature of our relationship to do so. To say a heartfelt embrace and warm congratulations were hardly the reactions I anticipated...’_

Haytham had survived the night, only to perish four years later, at the hands of his son – the very son he had fought with Cormac over four years before.

Connor shut his eyes, then turned the pages forward. Shay Cormac did not appear in the journal again until late the next year, after Connor had prematurely ended his alliance with his father.

‘ _I am recalling Shay to these States. True, he is no longer under my authority, but I have no doubt he will come. With Connor tearing through our Rite, I can no longer justify keeping our_ _ Hunter away.  _

_‘If I am to be honest, that is only an excuse. I have missed Shay. I have missed the ease of friendship we once had, before grief and ideology rent it. We did not part on the best of terms and I fear if we do not take steps to mend things now, all opportunity will be reft from us...’_

Cormac had remained in the States,  Connor read,  fighting in the Southern theatre, at least until September of ’81, when Haytham’s journal came to its end.

_ He never came after me _ , Connor wondered,  _and Father never sent him_. Having fought Cormac, and having nearly died at his hand, Connor had no doubt the man once known as the ‘Assassin Hunter’ could have ended him during the Revolution. But Shay had not, and Haytham had not ordered it, and Shay had let him live again just weeks before. Somehow, Connor knew, those truths were connected.

_ Thank you _ , Connor thought, silently sending the words to his father’s spirit. Haytham Kenway had been dead for years now, but Connor had no doubt he had found a way to spare his son a third time.

* * *

Stephane was the one to bring Connor news from the Convention. The other Assassin had been sneaking in, a task made more difficult by the decision to shutter every window in Independence Hall. “To keep out spies,” the French  Assassin explained exhaustedly, the terrible heat in the building leaving him drained. “Or so they say. I think it is so the Templars can keep us out.”

“Technically,” Connor noted, “we  are spies.”

“Oui, I suppose,” Stephane agreed. “At least  they must roast as much as I.” he chuckled.

Connor smiled faintly. “I should be able to relieve you soon,” he said, carefully stretching his still healing limbs. “Dr. Rush thinks I’ll be fully recovered in a few weeks.”

Stephane waved a negligent hand. “It is no matter,” he assured Connor. “The debates are… interesting. There is quite a fight between the big States and small over this apportionment. The big States want to be represented by population, and the small want an equal vote.”

“There are arguments to be made for both,” Connor mused.

“Oui,” Stephane agreed. “Also, the South says slaves must count to numbers and the North says ‘non!’ They are convening a committee for a compromise.” He hesitated. “I think the Templars are behind this fight, but I think it a great risk; if they cannot agree, they may abandon the whole.”

Connor frowned. Such a failure would not be of benefit to the Nation, Templar interference in the result or no. “Do we have anyone on the committee?”

Stephane nodded. “Martin, of Maryland. He has been receptive to our views. Also Mason, from Virginia.” That was good news at least.

“Do we have any idea  what the Templars are hoping for?”

“Hamilton has been suggesting the most extreme of plans,” Stephane replied. “He has spoken of a senate elected for life and an executive governor also. And a judiciary for life. But I think he is too soon; the others are calling him a monarchist.”

“No,” Connor said thoughtfully. “I don’t think it is.” It was the sort of plan most Templars would approve of. Most, but Cormac was not most Templars. “It’s a trick, for us and them. For us, because the Templars  know  Hamilton is compromised , and  Cormac knows what we expect from his Order.  He gives it to us, so we will not look further.” The Assassin sighed. “And he also reminds the delegates of what they fought for, and why they  must compromise, by uniting them against this plan.” He scowled bitterly. “You are right; they are controlling  this debate; possibly the others, too. But I am not certain what to do about it.”

“Stop them?” Stephane suggested dryly.

“We need a government,” Connor said unhappily, “and I do not know how to create one. I am no longer certain what is worse: no government, or one shaped by Templar hands.” Konwatsii’aieni’s words haunted him. “ _ You did not ask.”  _

“But we cannot simply leave it to them!” Stephane objected.

“Of course not,” Connor agreed, casting his doubts aside. “We have to ensure whatever government is built, it is  not one the Templars can control; nor can it be one which tramples upon the people’s rights.” He paused, considering. Not stopping the Templars, but mitigating them. Allow them their frame, but the contents… 

“You mentioned Mason and Martin. I would like to meet them and any others you think may aid our cause.”

* * *

“I’m worried the large States will dominate the small,” Luthor Martin admitted over tea. “Tyranny of the majority – and the minority, for that matter – is still tyranny, even if it _is_ a tyranny of the people.”

An interesting point, and an uncommon view of things. It was not one Connor would have considered.  _ Which is why  I _ _am not building this government_ , he thought wryly . The past few weeks had given him a great deal of respect for the quality of the delegates.   
  


“And on the centralization power?” He asked.

Martin shook his head angrily. “I fear this new government will hold too much power over the States , and there is little concern if it may trample on the rights of the people. If it should be so, I will not remain to see it pass.”

* * *

Robert Yates and John Lansing  J r., delegates of New York, arrived together, already determined to leave.

“This Convention has far exceeded its authority,” Lansing explained furiously. “We were here to  reform the government, not create a new one.”

“We are sovereign, independent States,” Yates added. “This new government will suppress our rights as such.”

“And our rights as citizens?” Connor asked.

“They care little,” Lansing said unhappily. “It’s as though they have forgotten  why we fought.” He shook his head. “It is why we have determined to return to New York.”

Connor frowned. “What of Hamilton?”

Yates shrugged. “His vote is meaningless without us. But I suppose it  is better to have  one New York signature on the page when this folly passes.”

“You believe it will?” Connor pressed.

“Unfortunately,” Lansing admitted. “But that won’t be the end. The States will need to ratify it, whatever _they_ decide .”

“And you will fight it?”

“With everything we have,” Yates promised.

* * *

Elbridge Gerry, Connor was sorry to learn, had been soured by Cormac’s rebellion. It had left him deeply distrustful of people. “They are too easily led astray,” he explained. “An indirect election would allow a wiser, less biased, result.”

Connor could see the wisdom, but he disagreed. The Templars could too easily subvert such a process. He would have little luck convincing Gerry of it , however. Instead, he turned the conversation to a matter on which they might both agree. “I am concerned about the guarantees for our rights.”

Gerry frowned pensively. “Young Pinckney has added a clause preventing the administration of religious tests, but I agree – it does not go far enough.”

Connor nodded, thinking it over. “Perhaps… some sort of statement guaranteeing our freedoms?”

“A bill of rights, you mean?” Gerry asked. “It is a good idea. I do not believe I could support a government that did not include one.”

Connor smiled. “And you will discuss it with your fellow delegates?”

Gerry gaze was firm and intense. “There is no greater cause than this. Better no government, than one which does not serve the people.”

* * *

“The eagle is too quick,” Stephane told Connor irritably.

  
  
The Assassin sighed. He had sent Stephane to look for Brigid, in the hopes she might lead them to her master. It had been a futile hope. “At least we know he is still in the area. He cannot hide forever.”

  
  
“And when he emerges, we kill him,” Stephane said grimly, raising his cleaver.

  
  
“We have little choice,” Connor acknowledged. He could not force the Grandmaster to leave, and Cormac was too grave a threat to be allowed to remain. Connor’s own plans could never succeed if the Grandmaster was there to prevent them.

  
  
Stephane glowered at him. “After what this traitor has done - you do not wish to?!”

  
  
“When I kill him,” Connor said softly, “I will kill any chance of peace. His children will not rest until I am dead - or they are.” It was the one thing he had hoped to avoid.

  
  
“So?” Stephane demanded.

  
  
“If I am going to wipe out a family,” Connor said grimly, his eyes dark, “I can, at least, acknowledge what it is I am intending to do.” He looked hard at Stephane as, shamefaced, the other Assassin turned away.

  
  
“Must it be a blood feud?” He asked at last.  
  
  
Connor thought back, to the bitterness in Christopher’s eyes, the rage on George Monro’s face, the grief in Konwatsii’aieni’s voice. “I do not see,” he admitted sorrowfully, “how it can be anything else.”

* * *

“I do think the Federation government must be stronger than the individual States,” Mason admitted, “but the power over monetary matters must remain with the people, in the House. I fear the Senate may become too powerful.”

The argument over representation, Connor recalled, had been settled with the decision to have a  bicameral legislature: a Senate, with equal representation, to represent the States; and a House of Representatives, with proportional representation, to stand for the people.

“I see,” the Assassin said now, encouraging Mason to continue.

The man eagerly did so. “We need a committee of revision,” Mason continued, “to avoid excesses and foolish legislation.”

“What about…” what was the term Gerry used? “…a Bill of Rights?”

“An excellent idea,” Mason agreed. “I’ll have to propose one. God knows what these fools will  do to our rights if we  don’t have one.”

* * *

“This new government,” Connor told Stephane wearily, exhausted after a long, hot, day of debates, “will have three branches.” The Assassin lay back, pressing a damp cloth against his flushed face.

  
  
Stephane nodded thoughtfully. “They have decided then? A legislature, an executive and a court?”

  
  
“Yes.” Connor frowned pensively at the boarded-up Hall. “The y will check each other.” Such was the intent, at least.

  
  
“The Templars will have a way to subvert it, non?”

  
  
“But  how ?” Connor wondered. That was the problem. The Templars certainly intended to control the government they were creating... but  he  could see no easy - or, at least, no obvious - method for them to do so.

  
  
“I... I do not know,” Stephane confessed. “But they are Templars. I cannot think they do not intend such.”

  
  
“Nor I,” Connor agreed. “But Cormac has never done what I expected. And what we have seen... This government is... it is...”

  
  
“It is almost like they want it hard to control, non?” Stephane said, putting words to Connor’s thoughts.

  
  
“Yes,” the Assassin affirmed. “It is exactly what it is like.” But why would Templars create a government they could not control?

* * *

“It’s a good idea,” Madison admitted, when Connor finally cornered him at the beginning of September. “But it’s a little late to add it now. We cannot risk losing the Nation.”

“But you will consider it?” Connor insisted.

“I will,” Madison agreed. “I’ll even keep you abreast of my ideas. But we  have to get this constitution through first, even if  I  must argue for why it was not included.”

“And what are the people to do until then?” Connor demanded.

“The States bills still stand,” Madison reminded him. “They may be little more than paper barriers, but they will hold until we can put a proper fence into place.”

* * *

“Will you support it?” Connor asked.

“Not now,” Washington admitted. “We’re already set to vote.”

“But later,” Connor said, “after ratification, if the matter of amending this Constitution were to arise…?”

“I don’t know I’ll have the power.” Connor simply stared at the General, who sighed. “They’re going to give it to me anyway, aren’t they?” Washington asked rhetorically.

“You will be the first President sworn in under this Constitution,” Connor told him. Only a fool would expect otherwise.

“If  you are correct , and, I am sorry to say, I expect you are, I shall be honored to throw the whole of my support behind the endeavor. A bill of rights will be a fine addition to what we have built here.”

“Thank you,” Connor said. “We fought long and hard for our liberties; I would not want to see them lost.” _Merely extended to_ _ all . _

“Nor I,” Washington agreed, “and I  will stand against any man who would strip them from us.”

* * *

Connor and Stephane stood guard on the rafters in Independence Hall, watching the delegates sign the United States Constitution.

“Cormac won,” Stephane said bitterly. “He seeded the debates too well; he has a government just as he wants.”

Connor smiled, eyes sharp. “He has a piece of parchment,” the Assassin corrected. “But ratification… Ratification is another matter entirely.”

The Assassin had learned much since arriving in Philadelphia, and his opinions had changed greatly. The  shape of this new government had been forged by the Templars, and they had forged a far better foundation than he had dared hope. Still, it had been their enemies ’ victory, won before the Assassins knew there was a war.

But the journey to ratification was another matter entirely, and this time the Assassins were prepared. If the Templars wanted their government to become law, they would have to pay the Assassins’ price.

The price of a Bill of Rights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animus Notes:
> 
> Oath of Secrecy: During AND after. Until today it’s not entirely clear just what went on inside that building. Some notes and memoirs were published later, and we know the broad strokes of the debates. A lot of it was never recorded though, and many delegates never discussed it. Apparently the Founding Fathers did not believe in government transparency. At least not when creating governments.
> 
> Journal: Huh. So Haytham DID write about Shay in that thing. Those pages are missing again; I wonder what happened?
> 
> Francois-Thomas Germain: French silversmith and Grandmaster, best known for starting the French Revolution. He was close friends with Cormac and they travelled together for years. Together, they brought de Molay’s teachings back into the mainstream of the Order.
> 
> Luthor Martin: An early advocate for independence and a Founding Father, Martin actually DID believe in transparency and opposed the secrecy rule. He was also one of the loudest voices against slavery (weird, because he owned some) and left early because he thought States’ rights were being trampled upon. Our records indicate that he remained associated with the Assassins, dying at the home of one, the infamous Aaron Burr.
> 
> George Mason: Famous for his opposition to the Constitution, Mason also wrote the Virginia Declaration of Rights which served as the basis for the rather more famous Bill of Rights. Mason is often credited as one of the fathers of the latter.
> 
> Robert Yates: Delegate from New York, he’s believed to have written a series of essays under a pseudonym condemning the Constitution. New York ratified it anyway (I believe an actual fist fight was involved.) He backed the Constitution once New York conditionally ratified it. Considering he later became an Assassin, that was probably the plan all along. Yates was executed by Hamilton in 1801.
> 
> John Lansing Jr.: The third New York delegate, he failed to prevent the passage of the Constitution. He also became an Assassin, for which he was executed by Hunters in 1829. His body was never found. And so one of New York’s great cold cases is solved.
> 
> Elbridge Gerry: The father of gerrymandering. That lovely bit of brilliance has caused more damage to civil liberties and freedoms than the lack of a bill of rights. Good thing for us.
> 
> Bill of Rights: The first ten amendments to the US Constitution. Funny thing; we ended up using those to centralize the government via incorporation. Much easier than doing it indirectly, as Cormac intended. Admittedly, he managed quite well.
> 
> AUthor’s Note: 
> 
> We have the Constitution!!!
> 
> And now you know why Shay wasn’t around for AC3...
> 
> Franklin was a lot more savvy than people realize. He hid it under a genial nature, but he was very good at manipulating people. 
> 
> And Shay is an excellent shot.


	39. 1787: Chapter 13

It had taken month for Shay to return to New York, months he had spent allowing his leg to  finally heal, while instructing his Rite from the confines of a safe house in northern Pennsylvania. He would have preferred to return  earlier, but doing so would have been foolhardy. The Assassins had been on the warpath, besieging his city, ever since Davenport. Much as the Grandmaster missed his home, he could not risk further strain to the muscle until it had healed.

In hindsight , Shay admitted sheepishly, if only to himself,  burning the Homestead might have been a mistake.

“Oh, it  definitely was,” Nathanial assured him as they rode toward the border. “A little revenge is fine and all, but either you go all the way or not at all. Half measures only cause trouble, Shay.”

The Grandmaster sighed. “I didn’t expect Guillaume would be there,” he admitted. “And  Atas á :ta … I killed his father. After that… I found I had no wish to kill the others. My animus was not toward them, but to Achilles – or, perhaps, my own past. It was that I burned in the end.”

“So not revenge at all,” Nathanial mused.

“No,” Shay acknowledged. “At the end… I was not angry, nor glad, when it burned. I felt only peace.”

Nathanial nodded thoughtfully. “You always were an odd one, Shay.”

The Grandmaster chuckled, rubbing his branded finger over the scar by his eye. “I blame it entirely on the time I hit my head going over a cliff.”

“Pretty sure you were strange before,” the Frontiersman teased.

Shay chuckled. “Well,” he smirked. “I  did join a cult dedicated to saving the world – and I did it  twice .”

Laughing, the two men rode on to New York.

* * *

“Hancock pardoned the Regulators?” Shay asked his sons, keeping a wary eye out. The sparsely populated farmland seemed deserted at this hour, but one could never be too careful.

“He did,”  Conlan confirmed.

“But for two,” George  Monro added, “Charles Rose and John Bly.”

“For  burglary, ”  Conlan corrected. “Not treason.”

George  Monro scoffed. “We all know what is meant by  that .”

“Hancock may still pardon them,” Shay interrupted, “and even if he does not, the rest are free.” He was deeply relieved. John had promised, but… Shay had led those men to revolt, for all that they had been moving toward it without him. The Grandmaster had organized them, guided them, focused them, brought them together. The revolt might have happened anyway – quite likely, in fact – but as matters stood… 

“I’m glad; they’re good men. The Regulators fulfilled their purpose; let them go back to their lives.”

Conlan smiled. “We have our government?”

Shay smirked. “We do indeed.” He handed the boys copies of the document. “Read it yourselves – I find the preamble quite stirring.” Gouverneur Morris had done a remarkable job. 

“Quite stirring,” George  Monro agreed after a moment, “especially the first three words. Of course, it’s the rest that’s important.”

“Agreed,” Shay said, smirking. “But it’s ‘We the People’ the Nation will remember.”

“You’ve balanced it well,”  Conlan noted.

“I had help,” Shay acknowledged. “My idea, perhaps, but it was our Rite, and many unaffiliated with our cause – even some opposed to it – who put it into words.”

“And now it will be law,” George  Monro stated with satisfaction.

“Once nine States agree,”  Conlan reminded his twin. “And the Assassins are ready for us now.”

“Which is why we must be certain of our plans,” Shay said firmly. “Is Eliza ready?”

“Waiting at the church,”  Conlan affirmed.

“Give me an hour to distract the Assassins,” George  Monro said, stowing the document away.

“Be careful,” Shay called after the boy, as his son ran off. “You’ll finish up here?” he added, returning his attention to  Conlan . 

“I will, Da,” the elder twin acknowledged. “You’ll be careful too, won’t you?”

“I will,” Shay assured him, as he headed toward the shore. “Just be on the  Eir é by dawn.” 

_ It is strange _ , the Grandmaster mused as he settled in the small canoe,  _ to think  my work here is  done – as much as it  can ever be. _ Regardless, he had accomplished what he had returned here to do: restored his Rite, created a new government, and made his mark on history. He could leave these States satisfied.

But now, looking out over the bay, Shay could acknowledge the truth. He  didn’t want to leave. He knew every current in this bay, every rock on this shore, every house in his City, every river, brook, and stream in this State. He could find his way through this land blind, if he wished. This was his  home and he was leaving her again, albeit not for long.

There was no avoiding it though. Shay had promised Thomas his aid, and Connor had to know the Grandmaster was gone for the Rite to have any degree of freedom to ensure ratification.

_ Why did I leave you alive? _ Shay wondered as he shoved off, sinking his oar deep into the waters of the bay. He still didn’t have an answer, at least none he was prepared to admit to. For  now he’d blame it on Haytham, who had never truly wished the boy dead, for all that Shay knew it wasn’t true. Not really, not anymore.  _ Damn fools the both of us. _

The Grandmaster clambered out of the canoe, careful to remain unseen as he made his way across the city to St. Paul’s Chapel. How many times had Shay balanced on its steeple, looking out over the city he loved? He felt the sudden urge to do so  again, but thrust it away. He could not risk Eliza.

Alexander’s wife waited inside the church, sitting quietly in the pews, a Bible on her lap. “What are you praying for?” Shay murmured, settling himself beside her.

“Guidance,” she replied, “for myself, my husband, and our Nation.”

“We could all use some,” Shay admitted.

“You’ve created a fine government,” Eliza noted. “I doubt even our enemies will have many complaints.”

Shay chuckled softly. “I’ve no doubt they’ll be pleasantly surprised. De  Mollay did not believe power belonged among the elite few, and neither do I.”

“Be careful who you say that to,” Eliza warned, never looking up, “when you return to Europe.”

Shay nodded. “About that,” he said, turning to the business at hand, “you are in contact with your sister?”

“Yes,” Eliza replied, turning a page, “and Alexander, too. He is quite fond of Angelica, and they write often.”

“Good,” Shay said, then: “I’m afraid I’m going to have to appropriate those letters. Alexander and I have come up with a cipher, based on the original Latin of the Codex Patris Intellectica. I need to send my instructions somehow, and you already have an established correspondence.”

“It is a good plan,” Eliza agreed. “Angelica will be delighted; she has often written that she finds the British Rite too stuffy and would much enjoy being a part of our own again.”

Shay chuckled. “I’m afraid I must agree with her assessment; our British brethren are a bit  too fond of their society affairs. The balls can be fun, though.”

“Indeed.” Eliza smiled warmly. “It  is good to see you again, Grandmaster. I hope you will have a pleasant journey.”

“Thank you,” Shay said, rising, slipping a letter into her Bible as he did. She would get it to Jay, he knew. Eliza was every bit as brilliant and capable as her husband; but where Alexander craved recognition, Eliza preferred to work from behind the scenes. “May the Father of Understanding guide you,” he murmured, walking away. He could just hear her echoed words as the church door closed behind him.

The Grandmaster glanced up at the steeple again, wondering. When would he next have the chance…? On a sudden whim, he activated his Eagle Vision, bringing the full force of it to bear. Nothing. No whispers. No red glowing forms. He reached out to Brigid, and her eyes confirmed his Vision. George  Monro’s deception had succeeded.

Grinning, Shay leaped for the side of the building, climbing it easily. He had scaled it the first time back in ’66, Shay recalled, when it was first built, over two decades before. Now he did so again, this time to say goodbye.  _How long will you stand?_ He wondered.  _ Will you be here when I return? _ Trinity church had not, destroyed in the Great Fire, but St. Paul’s had survived. Perhaps the chapel would withstand the test of time, outlasting them all, Templar and Assassin alike.

The Grandmaster looked over his home once more, bidding it farewell until he returned, the bald eagle soaring high above. Then he leaped from the steeple, arms spread, legs together, in a Leap of Faith.

* * *

It was near dawn when Shay arrived on the  Eir é , the Man o’ War floating a  ways out to sea.  Conlan and George  Monro were already onboard, none the worse for wear, much to their father’s relief.

Shay entered his cabin quietly, not wanting to startle his expectant wife. “Maggie,” the Grandmaster called softly. There was no response. Frowning, he moved toward the bed, calling again, louder. “Maggie!” Silence answered.

Worried now, he put out a hand, hoping to shake her awake. She was sticky, wet, and his hand, drawn back in shock, was coated in blood.


End file.
